Into the Fire
by Tasting Raindrops
Summary: Have you ever wondered what it's like behind the scenes of the Games? This is the 89th Hunger Games, and you get to be a Gamemaker! Chapter 8 is up! Please read and review! DEEPLY APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCREDIBLEY LONG WAIT!
1. Introduction

**_Minor update: _**_I just wanted to clarify:_

_District 1- Luxury items for the Capitol_

_District 2- Medicine/doctors_

_District 3-Technology/factories_

_District 4- Fishing_

_District 5- Mathematics_

_District 6- Scientific research_

_District 7- Lumber and paper products_

_District 8- Textiles_

_District 9- Hunting_

_District 10- Livestock_

_District 11- Agriculture_

_District 12- Coal mining_

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Okay, first, this is my very first piece of fanfiction and I liked the idea of having people submit tributes, but there are so many like that already. I twisted it a bit, and I'm not sure if there are others like this or not, but here it goes.

You get to be the Gamemakers and, yes, submit tributes. You can also give submissions for the arena and the dangers found in it, including suggestions as to what the Gamemakers would do in certain situations, for example to get the tributes to fight each other – especially towards the end when there are only a few left – and how they could attempt to kill off tributes when not enough has happened to keep the Games "interesting."

Before the arena ideas, though, please give suggestions for the tributes! Include all information you find necessary and I will PM you if your tribute is selected, needs more information, or permission for me to change any aspect of the character if necessary. You can give their history; personality; looks; clothing for the reaping, chariot ride, or the interviews; family and friends; the district they come from; strengths; weaknesses; age; or really just anything that you think should be known about them. It won't necessarily be a first-come first-serve bases, but based more on variety and depth. Put a lot of thought into your tribute! You can PM me or write a review with the tributes' information, either works. Oh, and you can enter more than one tribute if you want.

These Games will be the 89th. Katniss and Peeta never went into the Hunger Games, so none of the stuff in the books has happened.

I will do my best on updating as often as possible, and, for that matter, actually finishing this. I hardly ever finish what I start because I don't ever think it's any good (but don't get me wrong, I love to write). Pretty please review so that I know this is worth continuing!

***At the end of the Games, I will announce the Head Gamemaker. This will be the person who submitted and contributed the most to these Games. :)***

And with that…

Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!

- heatsoul -


	2. The Tribute List

Yes! I finally got all of the tributes in. Here is the final list, and thank you to all who submitted and for being very generous when asked if it would be possible for your tribute to move. I have to admit it though, I did make a tribute of my own. Don't worry though, because I can promise there is no way that the person will win. Anyway, here it goes:

– drum roll please –

DISTRICT 1:

Male- Knox Marquis

Female- Rowena Hemlock

DISTRICT 2:

Male- Idle Browed

Female- Jerri Mahnthey

DISTRICT 3:

Male- Seattle Beck

Female- Charidy Junell

DISTRICT 4:

Male- Remus Skandin

Female- Damona Ravenswood

DISTRICT 5:

Male- Yawk Sky

Female- Willow Salvador

DISTRICT 6:

Male- Kardin Jels

Female- Ayla Maze

DISTRICT 7:

Male- Barren Lotus

Female- Pixi Nare

DISTRICT 8:

Male- Lysander Doffle

Female- Lyricata Croose

DISTRICT 9:

Male- Brier Carols

Female- Fawn Magnoli

DISTRICT 10:

Male- Jarryd Lizuli

Female- Aphrodite Godin

DISTRICT 11:

Male- Salem Avir

Female- Shaleep Scarlo

DISTRICT 12:

Male- Everest Garrison

Female- Primrose Hawthorne

Thank you to everyone who participated! You guys are amazing! I apologize to those of you who didn't make it (I really wish I could have fit them in, but there wasn't enough space) and for how long it took to get this done, but thanks for being patient… Or waiting, I guess. You didn't really have much choice… Anyway, thanks again! I will get out the first real chapter as soon as I can. I don't know about you, guys who happen to be reading this, but I am so excited!

**Now would be a great time for arena ideas! Please submit any you may have!**

-heatsoul-


	3. Chapter 1: A Day Full of Firsts

Okay, everyone, I've finally finished the first chapter! Took some time, and I apologize for the wait. I thought I would have it done a lot sooner, but I guess not.

Thank you so much to everyone who entered a tribute! You guys are amazing. And thanks to those who are entering arena designs, too. I've gotten lots of them, and you are still able to enter some ideas if you want. I'm not sure when I will have the arena decided, but I will let you all know when I close the submitting.

And I've decided to let you guys enter stylists, too! Well, actually, I got the idea from another fanfictioner who wanted to enter a stylist… Thank you, Demon Rider 14! So, if you want, you are able to submit a stylist for a district of your choice if there is room in that district. And, just to warn you, I will probably end up asking you nonstop about the costumes the district will wear for all events, so be prepared if you enter one. And I think you should just enter one. If I have a lot of empty spots, though, I'll let you guys know, and then you'll be able to enter more.

Along with stylists you can do mentors and prep teams for the district you pick!

So, anyway, here goes Chapter One!

(**DISCLAIMER:** Sadly, I am not Suzanne Collins so therefore I don't own any part of The Hunger Games, in case you guys didn't know that already.)

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**Chapter One - A Day Full of Firsts**

**_-Row_****_ena Hemlock, District 1-_**

I am the daughter of a champion. My father is a person who people respect and – at some occasional times – fear. I remember what that fear had felt like before, although it wasn't my father that I had feared, but what was to become of him. I remember lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling and just wishing, _wishing_, that I could do anything to help him. And I tried. I tried, to the best of my ability, to assist him, but I could only do so much then.

It is with these thoughts hanging in the back of my mind that I dream of that terrible day when everything changed.

_It tastes terrible, the tinge that rests and prickles on my tongue. I never thought overwhelming sadness could have a taste._

_I lightly squeeze my mother's hand that I have been clenching for I-don't-know-how long and finally lift my eyes to meet hers. What I see there brings me to tears. _No. No crying_. _It will only make it worse._ I struggle to keep the tears away, convince myself that there is no need to cry. It doesn't work. Of course I need to cry. Mom is dying._

_I blink furiously and use my available hand to wipe the teardrops that start to fall down my cheeks. I glance around the room and wonder how it came to this. How could it have gotten this far? _This isn't supposed to happen. My mom is always supposed to be here for me. She has to be!

_My eyes work their way back to Mom, lying on the bed in front of where I kneel. Her face is pale, withdrawn looking. Her cheeks and eyes cave inwards slightly, her skin pulled tight across her cheekbones. Seeing her like this suddenly makes me infuriated. Why must the Capitol be so cruel and keep the cure for cancer away from her? She's never done anything to defy them, to give them any reason not to._

_Today was the day of the reaping. My father and I already went to watch the drawings, thankful when nobody we knew was selected. This year two people volunteered for the girls' and boys' spots unsurprisingly, also people we didn't recognize. Mom didn't have to go to the reaping because she was sick and needed to stay in bed. It was agony to have to leave her alone for the time we were gone. When we returned, I felt even worse._

_Since Dad and I got back little over three hours ago, I have been stooping on my knees by her bedside. I have only moved once, to go to the bathroom for a minute._

_Right now, Dad is in the kitchen pulling together something for us to eat since none of us have had anything all day._

"_Rowena," Mom whispers._

_I force a small smile to my lips. "Yeah?"_

_She gazes at me, her tawny eyes tender. "You are strong. I know how strong you are, and you can catch whatever is thrown at you. Don't let this weaken you."_

"_I… It won't. I promise it won't." I watch her shaky breaths and will her to keep breathing, to make it through this so that I know I can keep my promise._

_Her lips curve up at the ends. "Good," she breathes. "You are such a beautiful girl; you always will be. I am so proud of you. Take care of your father for me when I'm gone."_

_Now I can't help but whimper, and my eyesight goes blurry again. "Don't say that," I respond with conviction. "You _will_ be okay."_

_Mom's lips twitch at this. She knows that I'm aware this is her last day, that I just won't admit it to her or myself. Gradually, her eyelids begin to close. Her breathing slows even more, and for a long moment she doesn't seem to move._

_My hands start to shake. "Mom? Mom!" I say. I can't prevent the anxiousness I feel from seeping into my voice._

_Her eyes open again, and I exhale in relief._

"_Honey, baby…" Her voice trails off, and she reaches up to the necklace around her throat. "Take… this."_

_I immediately reach, letting go of her hand, to unclasp the golden chain. I pull it away and cup it in between my hands to stare at it. Hanging from it is a little red jewel. My mom has worn it every day of her life for as long as I can remember. I don't know what to say, how to reply. It is unbelievable that she is giving this to me._

_My eyes flickered back at Mom. Her eyes are closed again, but her mouth opened. "Baby… I love you and… always… will…" she utters. Her voice fades as her sentence comes to an end._

"_I love you, too, Mom." My voice comes out thick with emotion._

_As I'm watching my mother's chest rise and fall, Dad silently comes in. When he sees Mom, he abandons the apples and peanut butter to come sit in the chair by her bed across from me. He grabs the hand that is in front of him and gently messages it with his thumb and forefinger. I place the necklace in my left hand and go back to holding her other hand with my right._

_I'm not sure how long it is that Dad and I continue to sit and stare, but I know it is quite some time later when Mom is finally gone. I'm weeping uncontrollably. I press my lips together, but I can't stop quick bursts of sound from escaping them. The hand I still hold has become cold and dry where my tears have not touched it. Dad looks like he is in shock and gets out of the chair at a snail's pace, his eyes in some distant place. He comes around the bed to pick me up, swinging me into his arms the way he has always held me since I was a toddler and carries me out of the room._

I wake up with sweat coating the back of my neck and my breath coming out in quick gasps. I can't stop myself from remembering that day after Mom died when I found my dad taking morphling for the first time, a sight I would find common for the following six months until his supply was cut off. I remember how I had been searching for him throughout our grand house nestled in the Victor's Village and being frightened when he wasn't there. I finally went down into the basement and found him huddled there. That day was the first time we had ever yelled at each other.

I sit up and look at the faintly glowing red numbers of the clock on my dresser. 5:23am. I might as well get up now. I have somewhere to be at eight thirty. Today is exactly a year after my mom's death, the day of the reaping, and I cannot be late.

I reach over and turn on the floor lamp on the side of my bed opposite the dresser.

Looking around at my white, empty walls, I sigh. This house has been like a cage to me for a year now.

I get out of bed and open my closet door. Inside I search for the perfect outfit I could wear to my first ever reaping where there is a chance I could be selected for the Games now that I am twelve. I finally decide on a simple, flowing white dress that ends right above my knees. I grab a pair of matching white lace flats and head to the bathroom for a shower.

It takes me a total of two hours to get ready. Not because I'd obsessed with appearing perfect, but because I want to drag it out as long as possible given that I have quite a bit of time to waste.

I walk over to the floor length mirror that stands in the corner of my giant room and gaze at my reflection.

I have pulled back my extremely long black hair up into its usual ponytail and thrown it over one shoulder. I have to admit, the white contrasts with my dark-toned skin well. Then I smile. I don't look half bad.

Fiddling with my fingers, I leave my room and stride down the stairs to the dining room. I'm surprised to see that my father is already up and eating. He lifts his head at my approach and points his fork to a plate sitting at the table in my usual spot. He is wearing a pressed button-up shirt and khaki pants composed of only straight angles.

"Hey, Dad," I say. "You probably should tuck in that shirt and wear a belt. Since you are a Victor you will have to go up on stage, remember?" I grin teasingly, but the look on his face tells me my attempt to lighten the mood has fallen flat.

"Oh, right." One corner of his mouth pulls up but his eyes still look just as gloomy.

Mutely, I sit down at the chair and pick up my fork. Suddenly the eggs and ham don't look quite as good as they normally do. I pick at the food, my stomach groaning. Not for the food, but quite the reverse. My hands feel clammy and nerves cause them to shake. Today will be my first _real_ reaping.

I sit for a few minutes staring at the plate until a moan escapes me, and I push the food as far from me as I can along the chestnut wood table.

Dad looks at me but doesn't say a word. He hasn't been as talkative as he once was before the morphling. He would have joked around with me before. Instead, he just goes back to his food as I leave the room.

I sit on the plush couch in the living room and pull at my hair. This will be the first time I could actually be chosen for the Games. But I can't be chosen! I just… can't. I'm not ready, not prepared, and I need to take care of my father. And what about Alder? Alder, the guy who I'd been going out with for a little over a year. The guy who stood by my side even when my dad wouldn't and my mom couldn't anymore. The guy who can continue to make me smile when I cry and get me to look forward to tomorrow. What would happen if…? But no. No, that won't happen. It just… _won't_.

As I sit, I strive to convince myself everything will be fine. I won't be picked and everything will continue to go on as it has.

"Rowena?" My dad calls me as he walks over to the front door. He turns to see me and states that we must leave now.

I nod and rise from the chair. My hand goes to my neck to grasp Mom's necklace for reassurance while I make my way to the door. I turn my head upwards to see Dad's face.

"I'm ready," I exclaim as confidently as I can. "Let's go."

**_-Knox Marquis, District 1-_**

_Why am I doing this?_

Standing a bit apart from the other sixteen year olds, it seems all too unreal. Like this is just a dream and that soon I will wake up and everything will be exactly the same as it was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Like I will be heading back to training tomorrow as I have since I was nine. But I know that after today that won't be the case.

My thoughts return to the present as I watch my father walk up to the podium situated on a platform in front of the mass that is District 1. He is the mayor, and I hardly know him. He never acknowledges me. _Wonder what he will think of my volunteering; this should be interesting._

I stop paying any attention as my dad begins to speak; there is no need to hear the same speech he makes over and over again every year. I could recite it from memory by now.

Instead, I last minutely question the sanity of choosing to volunteer. Is it really worth it? I think of my 'father' abandoning us, my mother and I, and the pain he put her through. Causing her pregnancy and then deciding to have nothing to do with her or myself. Even though I was extremely young, the shock of not knowing what was going on or what was going to come about later still pierces my thoughts. I think of how he continues to refuse to recognize us in any way, how I have never known him. How he left us to fend for ourselves without any of his help. How he denies all inquiries of his relation to us, and I realize I must do this. If I win, he will finally have to pay attention to us. He will see me as a worthy son and finally confirm the questions everyone keeps asking. That, or I will die and never again be troubled by my memories and get to escape it all. I'll take either, but the former would be my preference.

Then my mind wanders to Caris.

I can't leave her; how did I ever think I could?

_Because she doesn't feel the same way_, a cruel voice in the back of my head whispers. Does she? I've known her for a long time and loved her since the beginning. But she hasn't ever admitted if it's the same for her. Maybe, though, just maybe –

Before I get the chance to ponder anymore, Maryx Row, the escort of District 1, steps up to the microphone, taking the place of the mayor.

"Well, now is the time we have all been waiting for!" she exclaims as if it is the most exciting thing in the world.

I watch her curly silver hair spring as she moves over to the girls' ball full of names. Her heels seem way too tall, like miniature stilts, and as she walks she slips. A former Victor sitting in one of the chairs on the platform catches her arm to keep her from falling on her face. She recovers quickly and reaches the ball with her cheeks only slightly pink. She then reaches her arm in and wiggles around up to her elbow in paper slips.

Finally, Maryx pulls out a slip, makes her way back to the podium, and reads out the name. "Rowena Hemlock," she calls. Distantly, I hear a soft cry from the podium. It came from Lance Hemlock, the same person who caught Maryx, the father of this unlucky girl.

**_-Rowena Hemlock, District 1-_**

A buzzing like the swarm of bees fills my ears. _It can't be me! _My legs lock and I can't move. When it becomes obvious that I am not going up, some of the other twelve-year-olds pull and push me out in the direction of the stage.

_How could this happen? This is only my first year; it makes no sense…_ And then I realize that _of course_ I was picked for the Games. I am the daughter of a former Victor, after all. My father knew this was likely, so he trained me. I knew it, too. I just never thought that today would be the day that it would come in effect.

My toe catches on someone's shoe, and I stumble a bit. When I regain my footing, I find a familiar face in the crowd. _Alder._

His face is all scrunched up making weird wrinkles around his nose. His eyes are narrowed in pain.

I see him looking at me and I try to smile. I figure out how to maneuver my legs again and make an effort to add a little bounce in my step while I go up the stairs. _Look calm and in control, yet excited,_ I tell myself.

I catch a glimpse of Dad when I get on stage; his face is slightly green. I turn around to stand next to the escort, Maryx, and do my best facial imitation of a child getting exactly what they want for their birthday. Maryx gleams back at me and asks the audience, "Are there any volunteers?"

_Please, please, please, let someone, _anyone_, volunteer—_

But no one steps up, letting a heavy bubble of silence settle over the crowd and making me lose my grip on my last bit of hope. Unbelievably, nobody wants to take my place. This hardly ever happens, and yet today is the day everyone suddenly decides that they'd rather not risk their life to look cool. I can't believe it. _Today is just full of firsts, isn't it?_

"Well, what a surprise? Anyway, now is the guys' turn," says Maryx and she returns to the glass balls to select a boy's name.

I can't help but think of Mom. The similar numbness I felt when I first found out she had cancer begins to crawl through my body, disabling all of my mechanical functions. I can't wrap my head around any of it. Why must I be the one chosen? And just a year after Mom passed away, too? An even more disturbing thought crosses my mind. _What's Dad going to do? _I pray that he can't get into any more morphling.

I startle when Maryx reads out the boys' name. "Zayden Merk."

A short boy, who looks to be about twelve with spiked starch-white hair, comes out from the fourteens and silently walks up to the stage where I am able to see that his hands are shaking. "Any volunteers?" Maryx repeats. Zayden looks like he might throw up, right before a voice calls, "I will."

The shout comes from a sixteen-year-old forcing his way to the front. "I'll volunteer," he says again. He skips up the steps to stand in front of Zayden, shaking his hand and nodding at him with stone eyes. Zayden only stares for a moment and clumsily leaves the stage, his face ashen. When Zayden goes, I see the other boy send a hard look at the mayor sitting in a chair at the back of the stage. _Wait._ _The mayor?_ _Huh. I wonder…_

Maryx seems pleased and asks him, "Ah, and what might your name be?" She smiles brightly at him, showing all of her teeth that are too white to be natural, but only gets a stiff look in return before the boy says, "Knox Marquis."

A small gasp rises through the crowd as some people recognize his name. Hushed whispers fill the air as the informed hurriedly explain to the clueless.

"It's him!"

"Who?"

"You know, remember that story that was circling just a few years ago?"

"Which one?"

"The one about the mayor and a… mistress of his. A certain incident between the two. If you know what I mean."

"Oh, that story. Wait, _that's_ him?"

"Seems to be. Same name."

"But I thought it was just a rumor. That's what the mayor had said."

"But is it?"

My mouth forms a silent 'oh.' So that must explain the look he gave the mayor if what they say is true. I suddenly can't help but feel sorry for him. I never paid much attention to the story, though I hadn't been able to help but notice the publicity it had gotten. That must have been hard for him. I try to send a sympathetic face to let him know I am sorry for what he has had to go through, but he isn't paying any attention to me. His face is turned straight ahead and is staring out at nothing in particular.

Maryx's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Well, okay then, Knox. Now here's the mayor with the Treaty of Treason." Her face is so contorted from her wide smile that I think it might crumble from the strain.

The mayor now goes into the long and dreary reading of the treaty. It is repeated every year, as is required by law.

When he finishes reading, Knox and I shake hands. I look him straight in the eye and am surprised at what I find there. They are a soft gray color and seem to be outright saying, "Good luck," but in their depths betray him as feeling unsure and lost. I realize that that is parallel to the emotions I am currently experiencing. Only difference being that I didn't ask for this, I didn't chose to bring it on myself, yet he had. And just like that, the pity I had felt for him vanished. _He's just another one of their pawns, playing for the king and hoping for some reward, no matter the cost._ Anger takes its place. Anger at Knox, at the Capitol, for being so terrible as to willingly take the life of anyone standing in the way of what they want. Anger at my mom for not staying until the time when I need her most – now. Anger at my father for using morphling as a bandage rather than actually working to heal the wound like he left me to do on my own. _The Capitol doesn't own _me_ though,_ I think venomously,_ and I will _not_ work for them. I will play the Games my way… whatever my way is._

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Well, that's it for now.

Let me know what you thought! Did you like it? Did I mess up a lot on writing present tense (I normally write in past tense, so I think I might have made some mistakes, unfortunately)? Was anything confusing? I tried to clarify some points, but I'm not super positive it worked the way I wanted it to. Did you like the way I wrote it, how the point of view picks up kind of where the other person left off? I can't guarantee it will be like this exactly every time, though. I might end up overlapping some things if it seems really necessary, 'specially if you guys don't like the way I just wrote this paragraph. I'm just not a big fan of when people write the same thing twice with a different thought angle for the other tribute. Oh, and the two people who submitted these two tributes, please let me know if I did a good job portraying them! I'd hate to have written something that you look at and go, "What? He/she _never _would have thought/done that!"

**Pretty please, with sugar on top, review and don't forget to enter arena, stylist, mentor, and prep team ideas if you have any!**

So now I say, "Peace, love, and coffee-flavored ice cream from a fellow human of the Write!"

-heatsoul-


	4. Chapter 2: Utterly Defeated

Here is the next chapter! I'm so sorry it took so long! I would blame school, but there really is no excuse. So, I apologize and I'll try to do better in the future.

Okay, well, I'm going to have to try something. The thing is, I don't cuss. At all. The worst things I say are "heck," "dang," "darn," and "shut up." I won't write cuss words either. So a problem arises when tributes that have been submitted to me do cuss, or seem like they might under certain situations. I have come up with a solution: I will write the substitute word, but if the tribute really does say the other word, then I will underline it, so that I won't have to actually write it and those who don't want to read that type of stuff won't have to. People who don't mind, though, can think of the word differently, the way it was actually said or thought by the character. However, if the word is _not_ underlined, then that means that the character really said it as written. So, people, I'm going to try this out, and please bear with me. Let me know if you think the idea is good or awkward or whatever. I'm going to test it out in this chapter, so, here goes…

(**DISCLAIMER: **As unbelievable as it may sound, I still do not own The Hunger Games. And last time I forgot to mention that I do not own any of the characters in that last chapter either, except for Maryx and Zayden.)

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**Chapter 2 - Utterly Defeated**

**_-Damona Ravenswood, District 4-_**

_Just breathe,_ I think. _Relax and enjoy this moment._

I stand on the boardwalk and turn my head upward. The sun is just barely completely past the horizon and the sky is the most perfect shade of baby blue with little fluffs of cotton cloud floating gently across the expanse. In front of me, the ocean spreads out in all directions, glistening, a few shades darker than the sky. The breeze kicks lightly against my face, picking up my brown hair off of my shoulders. It is all _beautiful_.

Keeping my eyes to the sky, I slowly move forward to the end of a dock, holding out an arm to touch the columns of wood on the dock as they pass, making sure I don't fall over the edge. Though, actually, that might be kind of fun. But it would hurt my mom, having to worry about finding something else to replace the green dress shirt that matches my eyes. And I can't let her be in any more pain.

Two years ago, Leo was chosen for the Games. Two years ago, Leo died in the final three. Two years ago, Mom got sick. Today, Mom is still sick, and I don't know what to do.

Leo was my older brother and the closest to my mom. When he was selected to be in the Games, Mom started to change. Her health continued to decrease, and when Leo was killed, she hit rock bottom. To this day she still hasn't been able to gather the strength to climb out of that trench, and both my little brother, Elroy, and I know that if she doesn't soon she never will.

When I reach the edge of the dock, I hold onto one of the wood stumps in the corner and I pull off my leather sandals. Carefully, I maneuver my way down the ladder from the dock to the ocean, resting on a rung high enough that I can soak my feet without getting the rest of my body wet. My arm weaves itself behind and then around the outside of the ladder, latching on to be sure I don't fall in.

"Dang, this bar makes my butt hurt," I whisper under my breath. The rung is too thin to be comfortable. But the water makes up for it. It's slightly warm, but the places the breeze hits it makes it cool, sending tingles up my spine. I can't help but _love_ this. Getting these few moments of bliss before the moment my whole world could potentially be blown apart.

Being seventeen, today will be my second-to-last reaping. Sort of. My second-to-last chance at being picked to directly participate in the Hunger Games, anyway. I will have to continue attending these reapings for the rest of my life, but, right now, that doesn't seem like such a big deal. By that time, I will have made it through the nerve-wracking part where I could be chosen, the only part that really matteres, as of right now. _Just two more_, I try to reassure myself as I watch the calm water lap at my feet. _Only two more._

But while I should be feeling relieved at the fact of my chances actually dwindling, a weird premonition overtakes me; I can't shake the feeling that _this_ might just be the last reaping I have to worry about.

**_-Remus Skandin, District 4-_**

_Oh, __shoot__. Not again._

I'm standing by a vacant booth – everyone except for myself absent to prepare for the reapings – in the middle of District 4's huge fish market. And a loud stamping of feet has just erupted a bit of a ways behind me. I quickly turn around to find that, as suspected, the noise is coming from a huge, running Peacekeeper that has just now entered the far side of the marketplace. He is at least a foot taller than me, which is saying something 'cause I'm already about five foot ten.

The first thing that crosses my mind is, _Good, he's far enough away for me to make an escape._ The second thing I think, with my relief instantly fading less than a second after it appeared, is, _Crud__, he's between the ocean and me!_

Not wasting a second, energy envelopes me, and I spin towards the other direction, dashing off before my balance has even fully returned. I weave between the empty booths and stands with the ease that only comes from experience, leaping above any of the other obstacles that are short enough for me to make it over without hurting myself. Luckily, this has happened to me several times in my past, so I automatically know where to go.

I make it to the side of the market across from him, and I can tell through hearing his blundering steps that I am already way ahead of the Peacekeeper. Won't take much more effort to get rid of him.

Past the marketplace and now among some of the few buildings in District 4, I veer off course to head through the small alley I always use to throw the Peacekeepers off my trail. Slowing, I decide to put on the brakes for a second, so I can listen. I hear nothing. Nothing besides my deep breathing that echoes off of the brick walls on either side of the alley. Relief floods throughout me, and the adrenaline immediately leaves my body leaving my muscles and mind feeling drained.

After one last sensory check to be sure that I'm safe, I begin to amble my way over to the opening between the two buildings and out of the alley opposite the side I came in without a moment's hesitation.

I'm about to make it out when the sound of a skidding pebble about a foot in front of me stops my tracks. But it's too late. The Peacekeeper's already stepped out from behind the corner, blocking my path. Before I get a chance to turn and run for it, the Peacekeeper takes an enormous step towards me and has me pinned to the wall with my feet just barely skimming the ground, one of his giant hands around my throat, the other holding both of my hands to the right of my body against the wall in his massive grip. Up close, I realize that this is the Peacekeeper that almost always ends up being the one to pursue me.

"You think you're so clever, don't you, punk?" He spits on the letter 'p' of 'punk', spewing saliva in my face. His breath smells like rotting fish and his teeth look like them, too. My nose wrinkles at the stench. "But now, after all of these years of chasing, I know all of your strategies," he continues with a smile showing he's pleased with himself. "Now you ain't so cocky."

My breath is coming out in gasps, my lungs finding it difficult to get air around the pressure of his hand on my windpipe. The Peacekeeper doesn't seem to notice that my face is turning a light shade of gray. In fact, he seems so consumed in his pride at having finally caught me that I doubt he would notice much else. Taking advantage of that, I jerk my knee up, hard, striking the spot right between his legs.

With a howl dripping pain and rage, the Peacekeeper falls back, releasing me. I land lightly back on my feet and zip off towards the opening I originally came through, making as big of a circle around the wounded giant as possible in the confined space.

I run through the market, once again, this time in the direction of the ocean, of safety, and of home.

I make it past all of the buildings and am now among the middle class houses, and I still haven't come across anymore trouble. A little while back I'd slowed to a speed-walk, and now I slow down to a measured walk. All of the doors are closed and curtains cover the windows of the houses as families prepare for the potential tragedy that is quickly approaching today.

For a quick moment, I am distracted by the thought of what it would be like right now if I were concealed behind those windows and, absentmindedly, I stand still. To have a mom buzzing around me like a honeybee, worrying at me and bugging me about what to wear for the reaping. To have a dad off in the other room, helping a younger sibling get dressed. Or even just having an older brother to bicker with would be… so… _alleviating_.

But I will never get that opportunity.

As far back as I can remember, I had always lived in a small group home with a few other kids who's parents had either abandoned them before they were old enough to fend for themselves or had died. I never knew my parents. Most of the other kids had at least lived with their parents for a few years until they ended up at the group home, but I hadn't. When I was just a baby I was dropped off on the home's doorstep. Despite how cliché that may sound, it's true. So, I was brought up in the home with a few older ladies – who also had no other family – that took care of the children, me included.

At age eight, I ran away. One day I just couldn't take it anymore, so I fled the group home and never turned back. I ran, and continued running, until I found myself in the salty water of the ocean. Then I swam. I swam so much that my arms ached like never before, and I could barely keep from swallowing up the sea in my attempts at breathing. Right at the point that I thought I was doomed to drown, I discovered an island not too far away from where I struggled. Scarcely able to wrestle up the energy, I somehow made it to the island where I have since resided.

To this day, I still haven't again seen those three old, dedicated women since the time I ran away.

Consumed in memory, I almost didn't take notice of the colossal shadow creeping up behind me. Almost. In a split-second, I'm running again. A loud curse comes from the Peacekeeper followed by his heavy footfalls as he tries to catch back up to me.

Inside, I'm also cursing myself. For being so ignorant and reckless, for pretty much giving that annoying, pain in the butt Peacekeeper a free pass at getting me. I shouldn't get so overcome by emotion. It's dangerous.

I continue to internally yell at my stupidity until I recognize the few small shacks ahead of me as meaning that I have almost made it to the sea. Sure enough, a few sprinting steps later, the docks and ocean come into view. _Finally,_ I think exasperatedly. _I'm starting to get tired of all of this cat and mouse play._

Not slowing in the slightest, I dash off to the first wooden dock in sight. My feet slap on the wooden planks, and I can't help but smile at the anticipation of what is about to happen. Without missing a step, I expertly begin to bring my arms above my head as I prepare to dive. My back leans forward, and I restlessly start counting down the steps to ecstasy.

Three_. Ha, I made it past that stupid Peacekeeper yet again._

Two_. Now he'll never mess with me again._

One_._ _He'd better not._

Lift off_._ And I launch myself off of the dock and over the brightly reflecting water, closing my eyes in midair. The air tries to resist my flying body, but it is no match for my momentum. Then gravity takes over, and I'm slicing through the water, outstretched arms first.

I don't know how long I'm underwater, but all too soon I break through the surface. Leisurely, I turn around in the water to see where the Peacekeeper is. As I scan my eyes across the docks, a splash of bright green catches my attention. Comically, my eyes snap back to find that the green is actually the shirt of a girl with straight brown hair sitting on the ladder directly under the dock I just dived off of. A look of pure incredulity shows on her face as I swim farther away. Before I can ponder about her more, though, a shout comes from an angry figure stomping around across the deck.

"You won't _ever_ get away with this _again_!" he screams. "Don't think this is over, _Remus Skandin!_" A creepy grin covers the Peacekeeper's face as he calls my name like he actually knows that he's just uncovered my greatest secret.

**_-Damona Ravenswood, District 4-_**

Loud thumps coming from overhead break me out of my reverie. _What in the world…?_

All of a sudden, a shadow eclipses the sun for just a fraction of a second, and then I see someone, or something, diving into the water a few feet in front of me. In a sort of weird shock, I just sit there, still. A moment later, a head of black hair appears out of the water quite a ways out from where it went in initially. A pair of arms appear next, and I can tell from its back that it's a boy. Before he moves further into the ocean, he turns around, his head moving back and forth like he's looking for something. His eyes stop on me, his head going still.

I startle, eyes breaking contact with the boy's, when a deep and furious voice booms, "You won't _ever_ get away with this _again!_ Don't think this is over, _Remus Skandin!_"

_Remus Skandin?_ I've never heard of his name before. And I thought I knew most of the people in District 4. _Huh… Wait. Where is he going?_

The boy, Remus, had turned back around and was now sliding through the sea with grace, going out and out into the ocean. Where _is he going?_ The mayor always told us not to go too far out in the ocean because there were vicious sharks – muttations, as all of us believed – that attacked anything that moved outside of a boat. Obviously, there are three reasons behind this: A. He is unaware of the sharks. B. He ignores the mayor and goes out swimming 'cause he's a crazy daredevil. Or C. There actually _aren't_ any sharks. Had I any money to spare, I would bet it on letter C. I wouldn't ever put it past the mayor to say a few white lies to get us to stay in the district and not make a run for it.

Distractedly, I make my way back up the ladder and walk home.

**_-Remus Skandin, District 4-_**

I make my way around yet another pile of sardine-filled crates and stick my head around the corner of a building to gaze out at the packed square.

_Once again today, I find myself wandering through the innards of District 4. Wonderful._

Even though I basically live out on that island - and several other smaller ones, too - I have to show at the reapings. I'm in trouble enough as it is with the district; I don't need to give them any other charge against me. Every other year I've been able to come here without any trouble from the Peacekeepers. They are always so caught up with protecting the mayor, escort, and Victors that they are never on the lookout for my familiar old face.

But today I'm running late because of that interesting little detour I had to take to avoid getting caught. Normally I would show up as the main crowd was streaming in so I would be able to hide my face easier. Now I'm going to have to sneak in when none of them are looking. _Good luck with that, Remus. _Or maybe not.

The clock on District 4's Justice Building tolls out the time as being ten, and the mayor begins his extremely boring speech about… Well, who-knows-what. It's not like anyone pays attention to what he's saying anyway. Everyone's too consumed with worry that they or anyone they know might be picked for the Games to decipher the mayor's mumblings.

After the mayor finishes his speech, the escort, who's name I have no idea, walks up to the microphone, round belly bouncing, and states in a voice unusually high for a male, "These Games are about to begin!"

**_-Damona Ravenswood, District 4-_**

"These Games are about to begin!" declares escort Lewis Carlor in his gay-guy voice.

I turn my head slightly to the side to whisper my signature phrase to Ell, "Crud, that ain't good!"

She responds by giggling in her girly way. It has always bugged me, but I won't ever dare tell her that. She's one of the few friends I've got, one of the few people who seems to be able to stand me. Besides Elroy, that is. He and I have gotten along fine since…

Thankfully, Lewis continues before I get a chance to think down that dark road again. "So, ladies and gentlemen, I will now present to you the girl from our fine district that will participate in the Games."

He waddles – for that's really the only way to describe the way Lewis is moving – past the microphone to the giant glass bowl containing all of the girls' names. He sticks his short, chubby arm into the bowl and pulls out the first paper his stubs of fingers make contact with. He pulls the slip of paper out of the bowl and squints at it, scrunching up his face as he tries to read the name scrawled there. He's still staring at the paper, now holding it out at arms length to decode it, when suddenly my stomach curls up in anxiety.

Light dawns on Lewis's face as he comprehends what is written on the paper, and he calls out the name without bothering to toddle back over to the microphone.

I stand next to Ell, confused. _Where's the lucky girl?_ I think sardonically. I don't see anyone going to the stage, and I still don't understand. Then I realize that everyone is watching me. And it hits me that that was _my_ name Lewis read. _My name!_

I see Ell's face frozen in a terrified mask as she looks at me, her mouth open in a little circle. Trying to lessen her horror, I weakly say, desperately hoping she can hear me, "Well, crud, that ain't good."

Blankly, I walk up to the stage and stand next to Lewis. Up close, I see that he is covered in jewels everywhere. Rings on his fingers and ears. Necklaces roped around his neck. There are even strings of beads twined in his long, pale beard. He smiles at me, and then turns back to the bowl for the guys. Once again, he plunges his short arm in and out similar to the way a snake strikes.

This time when he reads the name, he holds it far away from himself from the beginning and then shuffles back to the microphone. He shouts into the microphone, overcompensating, causing a loud keening to sound from the speakers. There are some shouts of surprise from the audience, and Lewis quickly apologizes, still speaking a bit too loud. Then he states the boy's name. The nanosecond the words, "Remus Skandin," pass Lewis's lips, I recognize the name and my head jerks out to the crowd expectantly searching for him. The boy who I saw diving into the water, running from someone. The boy with the jet black hair and tanned skin.

A disturbance catches my eye at the back of the square. Someone is barreling their way through the collection of people watching the reapings towards the group of fifteens. Someone with dark hair. I can't help but smirk.

Remus shatters through the crowd and suddenly stops running, beginning to dawdle up the steps to the stage, head bent down. He stops beside me and spins on his heal so that he is now facing the collection of District 4. I'm looking at him so I notice when his gaze flickers from the group of people to the side, back ahead, then to me, ahead again, and then repeating the pattern in an endless loop.

I slant forward to look around him to see what he keeps glancing at. Unless I'm mistaken, it appears that he keeps peeking at a giant of a Peacekeeper. Unless I'm mistaken, it appears that the Peacekeeper looks quite pleased. I flash back to earlier today when I heard the roaring shout. 'You won't _ever_ get away with this _again!_ Don't think this is over….' Abruptly, I know that this specific Peacekeeper had been the person to say it.

"Well, anyone going to volunteer? No?" Lewis answers his own question before anyone even gets the chance to volunteer. A sinking feeling in my stomach begins to grow until I'm pretty sure it has completely fallen out of my body and down to the very core of the planet. No one is ever going to volunteer for me. Tears prick my eyes as I think of my mom and Elroy. But I won't show any weakness, so I blink away the teardrops.

Determined, I quickly look to pick out Elroy in the crowd. He's leaning on his friend Bata's shoulder, sobbing quietly. The breath that I didn't know I'd been holding whooshes out of my chest, and I know on the outside I look terribly sad, but I decide that it doesn't matter right now.

Lewis declares Remus and I as being the tributes for District 4, and maybe even future Victors. He then has us shake hands. When I look at Remus his head is still bent over, but his eyes, I notice, are such a pale shade of blue that they almost look like they don't have irises. His gaze flicks up to look at me between his dark eyelashes, and I know what he sees. An utterly defeated girl trying to be brave. And I am.

* * *

There you go! I hope you guys liked it. I tried to go through and edit it, but I don't think I did a very good job. I'm going to go through it again more thoroughly a bit later, but right now I'm too impatient to wait to post the chapter, so yeah.

Let me know what you thought! Especially those who entered the tributes for this chapter. Just in case you guys are confused about the order of how I'm writing this story, I'm doing the things that are interesting. I'm not doing every reaping or anything because otherwise it would become _very repetitive._ So I'm only going to write the ones that really need to be written. But don't worry, I'm going to write from everyone's point of view at some time or another, it just won't be the same times for everyone.

**Please review, and you can still enter arena, stylist, mentor, and prep team ideas!**

(**DISCLAIMER:** I also don't own these characters in this chapter besides Lewis and Ell. But I did come up with the names Leo and Elroy. I hope you don't mind HiddenMusic!)

-heatsoul-


	5. Chapter 3: Nothing

I am proud to say that I eventually completed this chapter! Yay! It's kind of shorter than the other two I've written so far, unfortunately. But I hope you guys will enjoy it! By the way, I've decided to stick with my cussing substitute thing, if you guys don't mind because I really see no way around it. Unless I decide that I will cuss, but that's not going to happen.

I've gotten really lazy when it comes to editing this chapter, so if you find anything that bugs you feel free to let me know! I'll go back and change it.

(**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own any of The Hunger Games, it's all Suzanne Collins'. Iris is the only character of my own, in this chapter. Also, the memory of Fawn's is NOT my own; thank you soooo much Elazaria! It really helped me understand your tribute, and it was beautifully written!)

* * *

**Chapter 3 - Nothing**

**_-Brier Carols, District 9-_**

"Brier, we _need_ to leave!" calls an annoyed voice. "We can't afford to be late to the reaping!"

_Ugh. Why can't Guava just shut up and let me be? I don't give a __crud__ that we could be late. Why does it matter?_

Life is nothing. Absolutely nothing. It does nothing for you besides make you feel pain and sorrow. Nothing good ever comes from it. And I can testify to that; I have firsthand experience. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. A common saying. The only problem is that right now fate is going through a drought, so that tree that grows the lemons is having a shortage, and life can only harvest a few. Few lemons equals a few lucky people makin' lemonade, and I ain't one of 'em. Never have been and never will be. Yet I can't help dreaming of that day I might finally be able to drink some of that lemonade, just to see what it tastes like.

"BRIER!" Guava shouts.

_She's really mad now._

After Dad went crazy, Guava has never really been the same. She's no longer the fun-loving sister she used to be; now she is irritable and gets angry easily. She's no longer irresponsible or carefree, either. She can't afford to be. She has to run the "family" now. With Dad being locked up who-knows-where and Mom running off with who-knows-who and losing all of our money, Guava's really had to step it up. Now she works wherever she can to make a living for the two of us. I feel bad for all that she's been through. It must really hurt her to know that Dad killed her love just 'cause she had wanted to marry him at fifteen. Then Dad went and got himself drunk from regret, some Peacekeepers got in a fight with him, and we haven't heard from him since. I was eight, then.

Everything went downhill after that. Mom met some guy who stole the loads of money her father had left for us after he died. Then she eloped and disappeared from our lives.

Like I said, I have firsthand experience with just how cruel life can be.

Before Guava can work up a deep enough breath to _really _scream at me, I stroll out of my bedroom to find my sister. She's standing impatiently at the front door, tapping her foot to show that she is not happy, wearing the black dress and hat she always wears for the reaping. It's supposed to represent mourning on this terrible day for the poor souls that get chosen to be in the Games. Mom had gotten Guava the dress back before she left us, and we still had money. That was seven years ago, but Guava hasn't grown much since then, so it still fits her.

Without so much as a glance at me, Guava opens the door and stalks out of the house and through our garden. Or what used to be, anyway. Years of neglect have led it to disarray. Weeds protrude everywhere and the trees needed a trimming a while ago; now they just look like tall clumps of green fuzz. The wall-hugging flowers have taken over the once-marvelous house face as well. Now they cover almost every flat surface and cling to the windows like they're holding on for dear life. But Guava and I have long since stopped caring.

Silently, we make our way out of the wealthier part of the district and over to the main square. Ironically enough, we are some of the first few people there. Only three other people have already arrived. Two parents and a girl with a high, long, and blonde ponytail. And we now have over an hour to wait for the reapings to begin.

**_-Fawn Magnoli, District 9-_**

I was the first person to arrive at the square, just under two hours before the reaping was planned to start. Thirty minutes later my mother and father caught up to me and now we wait silently, standing side by side in the middle of the empty square, staring up at the Justice Building, reminiscing.

Today is always the saddest day of the year. Always. No other day is so full of terrible promises, no other day guarantees depression quite to the same consistency. To everyone, the day holds some terrible memories, different for every person. To me it holds only one, for nothing really mattered after…

It was the day of the reaping, and I knew I was going to lose someone. Unpredictably, twisted by fate, it was myself.

_I was only eight at the time, and she was just turning six. Even though we weren't yet eligible to be in the drawing for the Games, we were still obligated to attend. Falon was wearing her best yellow dress, sewn by our aunt Peonee who had always favored Falon to myself, and a blue ribbon in her copper hair. I had given her the ribbon; it was my favorite, but when I saw the pleading look in her large brown eyes as she looked at it, I couldn't resist. After all, her eyes were just like mine. The only thing in our looks we had ever shared._

_I myself was wearing a white dress. It was simple, for unlike my sister I never wished to stand out. My mother had braided my long, blonde hair down my back and tied it together with golden ribbon. She gave me her gold-chained necklace to match and bought me a pair of shoes that would be suitable for the occasion. She claimed I looked beautiful._

_Even then I didn't believe her._

_My sister had always been my best friend. We told each other everything. Whenever she felt something, I felt it as well. No one was able to understand me as she did, nor did I want anyone else to. In my time of deepest despairs that only an eight year old could possess, she was there._

_"Don't cry," she would say softly as she wrapped her small arms around my upper legs, for that was as far as she could reach. "I don't like it when you cry."_

_We still had an hour left before it was time for us to go to the reaping, so Falon pulled me out of the house to go to the grassy meadow not too far away from the hunting grounds. That was her favorite place. We would sit there for hours giggling at each other and making crowns out of the flowers._

_"Look Fawn," she cried out after we reached the meadow, "it's a butterfly!"_

_I nodded as the creature flew past my head. "It is quite pretty."_

_Falon stood up and twirled around me, a smile gracing her face. "I wish I were a butterfly," she murmured._

_I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "Why? Sure they may look all right, but they are so small! And they can't sing or dance or play or…." My voice trailed off as I watched her spin around, all the while gazing fondly up at that butterfly, fluttering in circles._

_Falon giggled as she gave one last twirl before falling. "But If I were a butterfly, I would be free." She said it is as if it were the most obvious thing in the world._

_I will never forget those words._

_When we arrived back at the house ten minutes before it was time to leave, my sister bounded over to our mother with the small camera that we splurged on, a perfect little digital memory-keeper._

_"Momma," she exclaimed, "I want to take a picture with Fawn."_

_My mother smiled warmly at her youngest daughter and did as she asked. We stood in front of the house, our arms wrapped around each other in a sisterly embrace.  
That was the last hug I would ever share with her, the last photo we would ever take together. The last moment I would ever to be able to know that she was really there, really alive._

_We walked to the reapings as we always did. Falon would grasp my hand, not out of fear, but to console me that it would not be anyone we knew well enough to cry over. I was always the more sensitive one to things like this; she was always strong._

_The drawings were over quickly. Now I wish it had lasted longer. I would have made that moment last forever had I known that once my sister's hand parted from mine her final breathes would await her._

_On our way back home was when it happened._

_A funny looking Peacekeeper – now I know that he had been drunk – was yelling at somebody. An old man bent down to his knees at the man's fists. I scurried behind my father, afraid of the scene, but Falon remained were she was. She watched with a curious expression before walking over. My mother called out for her to come back, but it was too late, for she was already tugging on the Peacekeepers untidy uniform._

_"You're that girl's daddy," she whispered. "The one who is going away."_

_The man turned to her with a look of loathing._

_"Go away girl," he spat. "That ain't none of your business." _

_My mother hurried over and grabbed Falon, pulling her away. But not before Falon could say one more thing. "Shouldn't you be saying good-bye to her," she asked, "since she isn't coming back? No one ever does."_

_The man let out a furious growl, and then everything seemed to go in fast forward. It happened in barley a second._

"_DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO MY DAUGHTER!" he shouted. He ripped Falon from my mother and held up his club that was attached to his uniform, bringing it down hard on her head. A cry of pain escaped my sister's lips._

_My mother screamed. The forgotten old man lying at the Peacekeeper's feet gazed up, horror struck at the now bloody club held up in the Peacekeeper's hand. Falon was on the ground beside the petrified man, the blue ribbon I had given her now stained dark with blood._

_My sister had just died, and the being she had transformed me into left with her._

It still hasn't ever really hit me that she's not ever going to return. I feel like Falon is going to turn up, one way or another, and everything will go back to normal. But that won't happen. She's gone, and I continuously have to remind myself of that. I think my parents worry about me. That after Falon's death I've changed, my mind skewed. And I think they're right. Maybe…. Maybe I have gone crazy. Would I know it, or would it feel normal? Aren't people considered crazy because they don't realize they are? If they were aware that the person they were talking to wasn't really there, would they stop murmuring, or continue? Does it even matter if I am crazy? _Oh well. To be honest, it doesn't make a difference to me. It won't bring her back._

Earlier this morning I went to visit the meadow. It might just be my tainted memories, but it seemed to have changed since the last time I went. The grass was yellowing and the patches of flowers appeared to have thinned. _It's dying,_ I thought when I saw it. But, then again, it might have always been like that. When I was younger everything looked brighter and full of growing potential. Now it seemed flat and plain, everything special lost.

Before it could haunt me anymore, I fled from the place. And wound up here, where my parents eventually found me.

Now a boy looking to be my age enters the square with a woman who must be his older sister – she is far too young to be his mother. His shirt catches my attention, and I find that my head cocks to the side as I eagerly examine it, grateful for a distraction from my thoughts. It is a brown hunting shirt with slight green lacy fingers stretching off of it, really quite beautiful. He is also wearing a nice pair of brown cargo pants and riding boots, but they can't compare to the shirt. I glance down at my night blue long-sleeved top and red hunting vest matched with my knee-length hunting boots under dark pants. The boy's shirt is much nicer than all of my clothes combined, and my family makes off pretty well compared to most people. This guy must be really rich, probably the son of a Victor.

I finally peel my eyes from the boy before he can notice my staring and face forwards, toward the Justice Building. The giant clock now reads 11:24.

I continue to wait.

**_-Brier Carols, District 9-_**

Eventually more people actually begin to show up for the reaping, so I slowly make my way over to the spot reserved for the fifteen year olds. By the time I arrive, the square is already becoming crowded and I find myself standing next to the same girl with the long hair who had arrived here before me.

I turn to face her. "Hey," I say.

Distractedly, she partially turns her head to glance at me, murmuring, "Oh, hello," and then looking back at the Justice Building. She bites her lip and starts to jump up and down on her toes.

_Whatever_, I think.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see another girl approach the blonde. She's pretty short, with shoulder length brown hair a similar color to mine, typical for the district.

"Fawn!" she greets the blonde.

Fawn hugs the other girl, smiling. "Hello, Genisis. How's Reilly?"

Biting down on her tongue between her teeth, Genisis sighs, "Better. He's able to walk again, but it's slow going."

"That's good. That he's healing, I mean. That was a really nasty accident, and I'm glad he's okay."

"Yeah." And then they just stand silently by each other, staring attentively up at the podium where the mayor begins speaking.

Several minutes later, our escort, Iris Raya, approaches the microphone and declares, "It's time to get the ball rolling! How about we draw a girl's name now?"

_Right, 'cause we really got a choice._

Wearing a short, skin tight, metallic gold dress, Iris saunters to the giant glass spheres and selects a slip of paper.

She slowly unfolds it and reads off the name on the slip, looking out at the crowd with eyes the same shade as her dress. "Genisis Nyssa."

Beside me, Genisis' eyes widen, and she begins to step forward, but Fawn blocks her. After whispering something under her breath too fast for me to make out, she strides up to the stage with a set look on her face shouting, "I… I volunteer for Genisis!"

"Okay then!" Iris states brightly. "And what might your name be?"

With a flash in her eyes, she replies, "Fawn Magnoli."

"Well, we now have our female tribute. For the boys…" Iris prances to the ball, grabs a paper, and returns to the microphone in the span of five seconds to finish her sentence, "Brier Carols."

I blink. _Me?_

Blankly, I shuffle to the stage and take my place next to Fawn and Iris.

Iris says something else into the microphone, but I don't hear it. I can't hear anything but the roaring in my ears.

**_-Fawn Magnoli, District 9-_**

I feel like I'm back in the meadow years ago, seeing the butterfly and Falon spinning. Then everything goes in fast forward, and I watch as she approaches the Peacekeeper, curious. I see her fall and hear my mother crying out. I am there again.

Then I think of Genisis, of the way she helped me move on from Falon's death, and realize that what I did was right. There is no way I could ever watch anyone that close to me die again. It's only logical for me to take Genisis' place. I can't afford to lose my best friend, too.

If she were to also die, I would be left with nothing.

* * *

That's the chapter! Sorry it's shorter than normal.

**Please review! **Reviews are amazing, almost as marvelous as coffee ice cream (which is pretty awesome, if I do say so myself).

**Not very many people have entered stylist, prep team, or mentor ideas, but you are still able to if you would like!**

And, I have officially decided on the arena though I'm not going to tell what it is until the Games really start. However, I can say that it is a mix of almost everything submitted. I noticed lots of repeats of ideas, so I tried to take at least one thing from them all and mesh it together. **So, arena submitting is now closed.**

-heatsoul-


	6. Chapter 4: A Kept Promise

I feel like my chapters are starting to get dryer and shorter already, and I hate it. I'm wanting the reapings to be over already, and hopefully now that I've finished them I will become more interested in the story again, which should be reflected in my writing. Theoretically. Of course, I'm still going to have to do one or two goodbyes, but after that I think I will be more excited. And with the goodbyes I'll be able to work on my dialogue (that's my biggest weak point, in my opinion).

And another thing: **There shall be no more entering stylists, mentors, or prep teams. **I looked back and realized that in fact I do have plenty. I won't really be needing any more because more likely than not they won't end up being featured if I have too many 'cause I'm going to be skipping around with the points of view. **So please don't submit any more – not that I had an overload of people submitting them in the first place – because if I have any more some people won't be happy if I can only fit in or mention their stylist/mentor/prep team once.**

(**DISCLAIMER: **Once again, I do not own The Hunger Games. However, I do in fact own Everest Garrison – the spot needed to be filled, so I used my imagination and pleased myself by thinking up a solution to a dilemma I crossed previously. Don't worry, this guy's not going to get anywhere in the Games. I will tell you now that he is going to die quite soon and this will probably be the only chapter that will have his point of view, so you might not want to get too attached to him. Like I have. I really like this tribute for what he did for me, even though his personality is quite sketchy and I made him up in the span of twenty minutes. Which is rushing quite a bit for me. Wow, this disclaimer was way longer than I expected. And I just made it longer by typing that, and this… Anyway, the story continues with Chapter 4 below. Hope you enjoy it!)

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**Chapter 4 – A Kept Promise**

**_-Primrose Hawthorne, District 12-_**

"Hazel?" My whisper sounds way too loud in the hushed room. Cautious, I gently shake my sister's shoulder hoping I won't rouse Rue, too. "Hazel, wake up."

A hushed moan escapes her, "Ugh, no. Get Mom."

"Hazel, listen. Mom, Dad, and I are leaving. You need to pay attention to Rue. We don't want a repeat of last time."

Sighing, Hazel rolls over on her side so that she can see me and lazily opens up one eye. "Well, who died and made you boss?"

I am becoming easily fed up already. If I open my mouth I think I might end up waking Rue, so I just purse my lips and glare converting my anger silently through the air with my gaze. The phrase, "If looks could kill," crosses through my mind, and I'm pretty sure Hazel is thinking the same thing.

Hazel's lips twitch under my stare. Taking a giant intake of breath, she utters a reluctant, "Fine," and shifts away from me.

As I tiptoe out of the room, I swear I hear Hazel mutter under her breath, "Looks like Ms. Bossy's got her panties in a wad… Stubborn teenagers…"

I roll my eyes.

Out in our small living room I meet up with Mom and Dad. They are both gathering a few last minute things before we go off hunting. Three minutes later, we are all walking softly out of the front door into the predawn stillness of the Seam. As usual, we take our roundabout, back alley path to find the fence. Seeing as it is the day of the reaping there is absolutely nobody else out, so we don't run into any trouble as we walk along the fence that surrounds District 12. We are threatened that it is electrical, but since the Seam is so poor it hardly ever seems to be running. Still, we all make sure to check that we don't hear any telltale humming that signals the fence is on and dangerous. A little while later we find the hole in the fence and sneak under it one by one while the others keep watch.

As soon as I was old enough, my parents began taking me on these trips to the woods to learn how to hunt. My mom tells me that when she was young, her father passed away. Her mother stopped paying attention to her and my dead aunt, my namesake, so they started slowly dying, starving, but one day a boy gave her bread. And determination. So then she started going out and hunting to keep what was left of her family alive. That's how she met Dad, too. She tells me that the reason why they teach me to hunt is so that I could use it when needed, if something ever happened to them or if I ever get chosen for the Hunger Games. I need to be prepared just in case.

For the next couple hours, we hunt. And I love it. I love the silence, the stalking of the prey waiting for just the right moment to attack. I love snaking through the trees, treading softly, making no noise. I love the thrill of it, the patience, the anticipation. The reward.

I had been holding my bow and arrow ready to shoot a squirrel the way Mom taught me when the darkening sky decided to let loose. Slowly at first, rain fell from the sky until the ground was spotted with dark stains. And then it started pouring.

Now Mom, Dad, and I are making our way back to the house, completely soaked. But at least we had some fun before the reapings.

**_-Everest Garrison, District 12-_**

I wake up right after dawn and the house is still silent. No doubt my father stayed out all night with his newest admirer, drunk and uncomprehending as always.

_Maybe he won't even show for the reapings._

Reapings. Today. Well, that's kind of inconvenient.

Stretching out my arms and popping my shoulders, I sit up. The room is dark in the corners of the room where the little bit of weak light that streams through the single windowpane doesn't reach. Looking through the window, I can see a patch of gray sky and some dark clouds. _Suits the mood, doesn't it._

A knock sounds throughout the empty house. _That'll be Dad._

With a sigh I climb out of bed and exit my room to answer the front door, the slapping of my bare feet on the clammy floor echoing off the close walls. I'm yawning as I open the door to find someone standing under the overhang of the roof, sheltering from the rain that has already started to drizzle down.

"Good morning, Everest."

Surprisingly, the man isn't Dad. "Oh, um, Mr. Mellark, I wasn't expecting you."

Mr. Mellark half smiles as if apologizing and replies, "No, I know that. I hate showing up unannounced, but I was wondering if you could assist me with something." He continues to stand there in front of the door, his hands in his pockets, looking kind of uncomfortable. Maybe that has something to do with the rain now pouring in at an angle, soaking his back and causing his blonde hair to sag into his eyes.

"Sure, I guess I could help you," I say since he doesn't appear to be continuing anytime soon. "Here, come on in."

Nodding his head in thanks, Mr. Mellark walks in and turns to talk to me in the entryway. I close the door, not before rainwater starts to puddle on the floor, and face Mr. Mellark.

"I know that most businesses are closed on reaping day, but I thought that I could still do a little something. I want to bake a little basket of food for the families of the tributes that get chosen today, without charge. Of course, I would still pay you to help."

Peeta Mellark is the most well known baker of District 12, and I work for him after school and on the weekends. He is the guy everyone goes to for anything and everything that can be baked, whether that is an elaborate wedding cake or just some warm bread on a freezing day. People also know him for his considerate prices and willingness to work to anyone's budget, for his kindness. Most people say that it's a miracle for him to have stayed in the Seam after all of the other offers for him to move to the wealthier part of the district that he's gotten.

"Sure, I could help. I have nothing else I need to do." Frankly, the idea of waiting all day for the reapings to come would be torture, so any distraction is welcome.

Mr. Mellark tells me to meet him once I'm dressed and ready, and then he leaves the house, walking out into the downpour.

Ten minutes later, dressed in clothes more suitable than the boxers I wore to bed, teeth brushed, and quick breakfast eaten, I follow him over to the bakery.

I knock on the door when I arrive, upset to find out the hard way that there is nothing over his door to keep the rain off of me.

A distant cry from within the house calls, "Come on in, Everest. The door is unlocked."

I walk in, making sure to remember to wipe me feet off on the mat in the entryway. The smell of dough wafts through the building, a constant aroma that always lingers here. Going to the kitchen in the back, I find Mr. Mellark already working away. Without hesitation, I join him.

**_-Primrose Hawthorne, District 12-_**

After getting ready for the reapings, we all leave the house. The rain has slowed and now it's just a trickle, but the clouds are still dark leaving me unsure about how over this storm really is. We are too poor to own more than one tattered umbrella, so the five of us try to huddle under it to keep dry.

We finally arrive at the square in front of the Justice Building and have to break off. Mom, Dad, and Rue, who is too young to be selected for the Games at just seven years, head for the crowd in the back while Hazel and I move to stand with our different age groups. Hazel just turned twelve this year, so this is her first real reaping. I can't stand the thought that she might be picked for the Games.

When we pass the twelves, Hazel starts to walk that way, but I grab her hand to stop her. "Hazel?"

She turns. "Yeah, Prim?"

I can see a water droplet land right between her furrowed, curious eyes. "It'll be okay. You won't have to go into the Games. I promise." I'm doing this to convince myself as much as her. She can't go in. I won't allow it.

She nods. I don't think she could have spoken if she tried.

Wordlessly, we hug. Then I have to let Hazel go and twist around the people waiting to get to the sixteens' section.

As I stand, water still sprinkling down on me, I chant a silent prayer over and over. _Don't let it be Hazel, don't let it be Hazel. She's too young. Don't let it be her._

I'm so consumed by my plea that I don't notice when the mayor leaves the podium and the escort steps forward. I don't notice when she draws the name of the girl. I still don't notice when she calls the name. I just hear enough to know it's not Hazel. _Thank goodness._

I don't notice anything until I hear Hazel's cry. I pivot around to find her in the crowd. She's pushing through everyone to get to me. Hazel barrels into my stomach and wraps her arms around me with a viselike grip.

"No, no! You can't go into the Games, you can't!" She sobbing, hysterical. Only now do I realize whose name was drawn from the bowl. Mine.

Dazed, I pull Hazel off of me and look her in the eyes. "It'll be okay. You don't have to go into the Games. I promised."

Then I go to the stage. Hazel is still crying, but she's run back to find Mom and Dad.

Acting as if nothing happened, the escort picks out the paper with the guy's name on it.

"Everest Garrison."

I don't recognize the name. He's a year older, about two inches taller than me at what appears to be five foot eight, and much more muscular. I don't know how I'd ever beat him.

The escort has us shake hands, but I don't pay attention. All I can do is think, _How can I have a chance at winning?_

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And this chapter is even shorter than the last… -sigh-

**Please read and review! And I'd love to hear from the person who submitted Prim to hear if I portrayed her well or not.**

One last thing: I have a question. Should I get a beta reader? I think I should, but I'm not quite sure how it all works. I've never had one before. I'm pretty sure I should though… Okay, that question was more rhetorical. You don't need to answer it. Maybe I will, maybe I won't. Probably will. Sorry, that was mostly me thinking to myself. Don't know why I wrote it all out… Whatever.

-Tasting Raindrops-


	7. Chapter 5: Never Leave Your Side

Okay, I have found a beta (thanks so, so, so, so much, Elazaria)! So I hope this chapter is better with all of the typos and whatnot. Besides that, no real news that I can think of. Wait, no I want to say that this will be, in fact, the only goodbyes chapter. So with that being said, enjoy!

(**DISCLAIMER: **I am not Suzanne Collins! Still!)

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**Chapter 5 – Never Leave Your Side**

_**-Ayla Maze, District 6-**_

The escort's words still ring in my ears as I'm shuffled into the Justice Building by a group of Peacekeepers.

_Ayla Maze shall be the female tribute!_

I can't believe it. How…? My head can't even wrap around the idea that this could very well be my last time in my district. The last time to see my family. I can feel my eyes start to well up with tears, but I have to pull myself together. In order to have a better chance at both coming home and keeping my family together, I cannot afford to cry. If my family sees me breaking down, how would they ever be able to hold themselves up? When the cameras show, if my eyes are red and puffy, why would anyone want to sponsor me? They would think I was weak, and I can't allow that.

I'm pushed into a room, unaccompanied. It has dark red walls and dark wood flooring with several plush couches and chairs. The walls remind me of old, dried blood.

_Lovely, I'm already thinking about gore and dying._

Sitting down on one of the couches, I wipe the water away from my eyes and prepare for the goodbyes to come.

A Peacekeeper opens the door and all at once my siblings rush into the room.

Straight away, Max runs to me. I pick him up and hug him. His little arms go around my neck and hold it, strong. I don't want to let him go either. But I have to, sooner or later. I set him down on my lap and hug my other three siblings whose faces have all turned pink and shimmer from tears.

After simple holding and consoling, my sisters all sit back while I continue to hold my little brother in my lap. That's when I notice the still figure standing by the door.

My mom must have walked in without a sound after my siblings and skipped my notice. Unconsciously, my eyes narrow slightly. But within the second I turn to my sisters and my expression lightens again. I'm not sure if my mom saw the infinitesimal change or not. I hope she did.

Running her hands through my hair, Masie snivels, "Ayla, you can't go!" Her voice is high pitched and whining. A single tear resting on her cheek catches my attention.

With tender fingers I wipe the tear away. "But I have no choice. Don't worry about me, though. I'll be fine." _I hope,_ I add silently. _Please let me be fine._

Masie's twin, Jamie, touches my arm on the other side of me. "Who's going to run the store until you get back?"

I smile at Jamie's certainty and seriousness. I know I can count on her to keep everyone's spirits up.

"Anna? Would you be able to do that?" I crane my head to see Anna, the next oldest sibling next to myself at age twelve, sitting on the couch on the opposite side of Masie. Anna's just sitting there, noiselessly, watching us until I call her to attention.

"Oh," her voice sounds breathless. "Yes, of course I could."

I turn back to Jamie. "See? You guys will be fine."

With that, Jamie decides to lighten the mood by telling a funny story about what a boy did who was standing next to her did while waiting for the reapings. While she's talking, I sit back and look around at everyone.

First at Max. I examine his chubby face and hands. His bright blue eyes that are way too intent and focused for his age. I'm going to really miss him. I pray that Anna will be able to run the store well and make a living for our family so that he can be okay.

Then Jamie. Sweet, positive, Jamie who is so self-confidant it shines through her to others.

And Masie, the only ten year old I've ever known who can really pull off the word "attitude".

Finally, Anna. Silent, calming, and in control. I know she can do well to support our family. Right now she's grinning at what Jamie is saying, and I can see that she is going to grow to be a wonderful young woman soon.

I sigh. If only I could see them all grow up. I feel like their mother, always taking care of them. Our real mom is now constantly out with her Peacekeeper boyfriend. She has been since Dad died.

And now I have to leave them all.

Jamie's story comes to a close, and we all sit in silence, just holding each other. The only sound in the room comes from our soft breathing. Then Mom walks up.

"Mind if I join you?" I scowl when I see that her eyes are also red and watery. She doesn't deserve the right to be sad. Slightly upset, I would understand. But crying? Really? She doesn't pay a lick of interest in me on any of the days I'm not sentenced to die. Why did she even bother showing up right now? She must just want the attention. But I decide to try and let it slide.

"Um, no, I don't mind," I reply. She blinks at my tone, and I feel bad for hurting her. Sure, she doesn't really care about me. But that doesn't mean she needs to feel terrible about it. Maybe one day she'll wake up and realize that her children are in fact the best things that ever happened to her. On that day I want her to remember me as a kinder person, not the brat who wouldn't even let her say goodbye.

I lift Maxxy off of my lap and stand up. Mom approaches me and looks up at my face. She's a few inches shorter than me, but that doesn't make her look any less intimidating.

"Honey…." I can tell that she's finding this just as awkward as I am. I wait for her to finish her sentence, but the words never leave her lips. Instead, she just holds her arms out to hug me. Reluctantly, I let myself be folded into her arms and wrap mine around her, too. But it doesn't last long. We pull apart, and she finally seems to know what to say. "Honey, I want to say I'm sorry."

And I can't stand it. The look on her face, the pouting words. I can't accept her apology. I want to be able to, but I can't bring myself to say the words _I forgive you._ I just can't. She should know that. But before I get the chance to reply, the Peacekeepers come in and usher everyone out. My siblings leave reluctantly, but Mom refuses. She struggles against the Peacekeepers hold and gasps, "Ayla, please—" but she doesn't manage to get the rest of the sentence out. They take her away. And I will never know what she was about to say.

I sit for a moment in silence until the door opens back up. And in walks Nat. Seeing him, I can't help myself. I spring up from the couch and run to him, throwing my arms around his neck. He catches me and pulls me close. I bury my face in his chest and take him in. Everything about him. The heat of his body, the gentleness he holds me with, but mostly his smell. It is unique to him in the way that a thumbprint is unique to every human. It's soft, just a tad bit sweet, and warm. I would recognize it anywhere.

Nat pulls back and tilts my head up to look at my face. I blink furiously, mentally cursing myself for crying. Again.

"Ayla." He just states my name and continues to stare at me, at my eyes. He says it softly, gently. And that word starts to tear me apart.

I've known Nat for… for forever. He's been my best friend my entire life. I can't name a time in my life when he wasn't there with me, helping me fight life's small battles. But now here we are, saying goodbye. And this time he won't be able to stand beside me for the war I see raging ahead.

"Remember when I was ten and you were nine? At one point we were sitting in my living room on the couch watching a Hunger Games," Nat asks quietly.

I nod with my gaze still transfixed on him. We watched the Games often at his house after school. I didn't remember it very clearly, but I had a feeling Nat did; he always had a great memory.

"One particular reaping stood out to me. I believe it was for District 5. I remember watching as the male tribute was called up. Now I can't recall the name of the boy, but I can still picture him. He was tall and very thin, like he rarely got to eat. He came from the sixteens' section and was a typical blonde with blue eyes."

"Like your eyes?" I cut in.

"Lighter than my eyes."

I try to envision this boy, but I can't seem to hold onto the image. Instead, Nat keeps showing up in my brain.

He continues, "So the boy's name was drawn, and he began to walk up to the platform. But right before he went up the stairs, he seemed to change his mind and started running the opposite direction.

"People started yelling and all of the Peacekeepers standing around the perimeter surged into the crowd trying to get to the boy, but he was right in the middle of everyone and they couldn't reach him. Some people started screaming as the Peacekeeper's forced their way through, but the boy didn't take notice. The camera was focused only on him as he ran. His eyes were glued in one direction, and he had an unbelievably determined expression on his face. Then the camera swung around to show what he was looking at.

"It was a girl. She was with the clump of fourteens, same age as you now. Her eyes were enormous, round, and a rich brown color. She had hair cut short, above her shoulders. By the looks of her clothes she was incredibly poor.

"The boy sprinted up to her and scooped her up in a giant bear hug; he was so much bigger than she was. Then the girl started crying when he let go of her. He stood in front of her, holding her hands. And he said one of my favorite lines ever: _I will be by your side throughout it all. I will never leave you._"

Nat pauses, and I wait to see if he has anything more to say.

"Later that week I was watching that same Game at my house. You were with your family," Nat continues, voice weaker and shaky. "The same boy was on the screen, and he was attacked by another tribute. She stabbed at him with a knife. He struggled and did his best against her, but the fight was short. The female tribute won, leaving the boy to die in the dirt.

"I'm not sure what I would thought would happen. But I guess I hoped that the boy would do something, anything, to show that girl back home that even after he died, he would still be with her. He didn't do anything. Just lay there dying. I was very disappointed that day. I vowed to myself that I would never do that to anyone I cared about. That I would always be by their sides and remember them forever.

"Now I realize that the boy might have still been thinking about her, he just might have been too weak to show it. But how can I know for sure? Still, I hold that promise I made true. I will never leave your side, Ayla."

It's like he read my thoughts.

When Nat was telling the story, I had buried my face back against his chest. Now I bring it back up, blinking hard, and whisper, "That's actually exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you." My throat is thick and the words come out kind of garbled sounding, but thankfully the teardrops haven't pooled over yet.

With unsaid agreement, we both let go of each other and sit down on the couch. I'm afraid to sit too close to him, despite how badly I want to curl up by his side. I've never told him how I feel.

Nat and I have never gone past the best friends stage. I don't know if that's because we've both been too scared to admit it or the unbearable idea that he doesn't feel what I feel. I sense a pinch in my chest at the thought of the latter. But, quoting Nat's previous words, _how can I know for sure?_ I've never said anything or done anything to show him, so how can I know that he doesn't feel the same way? That he doesn't get butterflies in his stomach when he sees me, that his breathing doesn't speed up when I'm near? And this might be my last chance to find out.

With a sudden bout of courage, I begin, "Nat, I—"

But the Peacekeepers start to open the door. Nat cuts me off and rushes to say with his voice cracking in several places, "Just— just come home. That's all I want, all you want. You will come home. I know you will." Then he kisses my head, as if I am a little girl, before the Peacekeepers show him out.

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**Review, review, review! Please! Reviews make me happy and keep me writing!**

-Tasting Raindrops-


	8. Important Notice  PLEASE READ

_**UPDATE:**_ I know it has only been one day since I put up the poll, but there seems to be a clear winner. **I will be continuing writing from where I am at now.** However, **I will be keeping the poll up **so that** those who did not vote still can!** Who knows, **maybe the results will change later.** But until they do, I will be writing from my current spot.

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Hello, all readers of my fanfiction piece! I have to say, I love you all in a totally non-creepy way. And because I love you guys, in a non-creepy way, I've been debating about something.

I'm trying to decide whether or not I should go back and write ALL of the other reapings.

I feel really bad that I didn't write them all before because I know that, were I a reader who submitted a tribute, I would want to be able to read _everything_ about him/her. Now I'm finding it hard to continue forward with the story, but I can't decide whether or not to go back and finish the reapings.

That being said, I'm going to **post a poll on my page** for you guys to vote on the matter. **Should I continue from where I'm at currently in **_**Into the Fire**_**, or should I backtrack and write all of the reapings?**

I hope you all will vote, and I'll do my best to please you with whatever the outcome is.

_**IMPORTANT NOTES:**_

I can't tell you how long it will take me to catch back up to the part I'm currently at if I go back and write the rest of the reapings.

The other reapings will probably be a bit shorter than my original chapters because I don't want them to take as long as they did before. I'll do the best I can with them.

I am _currently_ in the middle of writing a train ride chapter for district 8, Lysander Doffle and Lyricata Croose.

I have kind of planned out the next couple of chapters already, so I know where I'm going. If I do go back and write the reapings, I will type out my ideas so that when I catch back up I will know what I was going to write. So I won't be losing any of the thought I've put into the future and have to backtrack even more.

**_A VERY IMPORTANT NOTE I forgot to mention when I wrote this:_ If I do continue from where I am currently, I will be writing about the recordings of all the reapings, so some of the ones I didn't write WILL BE SHOWN. If any important information was a part of the reapings, and I did not write them out, tributes will also remember back to their reapings in future chapters.**

Please participate in my poll! And answer honestly. Don't answer whatever you think I want to hear, but vote according to what you want to read.

-Tasting Raindrops-

**Wait, I almost forgot:**

I will update this NOTICE chapter when I get the results of the poll and let you all know what I will be doing.


	9. Chapter 6: Best Friends

Well, I only had the poll up for a day, but I think there is a clear winner: I will be continuing forward from the part I was already at. I'm sorry to those of you who wanted me to write the rest of the reapings that that will not be the case. I have to say, I actually thought that I would be going back, but I guess not. Yesterday, after I put up the poll, I finally got over my writer's block and decided to go ahead and write this chapter 'cause, well, why not? I would end up using it eventually if I did go back.

So, with that being said, I have written the next chapter! I'm going to go ahead and leave the poll up so that if for some reason lots of people who didn't vote suddenly decide that they want to they can; the results can still change, and I can always go back a write them if that's what everyone votes.

Here is Chapter 6. Enjoy, and please review!

(**DISCLAIMER:** If anyone told you I was Suzanne Collins, you were sadly misinformed. The only character of my own in this chapter is Petal Hardwire.)

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**Chapter 6 – Best Friends **(I could not think of _anything_ for this chapter, sorry)

_**-Lyricata Croose, District 8-**_

I'm in a daze. I didn't feel my legs move or perceive anything before my eyes, but in the back of my mind I'm aware that I've left the Justice Building and am now sitting on a cool, leather seat. My eyes are glassed over, unblinking. I stay perfectly still and stare at my feet while my entire life

is spiraling,

freefalling,

into nothingness.

Unpredictably and with sudden intensity, I'm wrenched into a particularly gory memory of a past Game.

_I'm standing in an open field of bright green grass, not a tree in sight. A young girl is sprinting away from a huge, lurching shadow coming from behind me. I turn to see an incredibly tall boy on her tail holding something that gleams in the sunlight, hurting my eyes. As he runs, it's position changes slightly so that the sun doesn't hit it at a bad angle, revealing that it's a long, curved sword._

_Despite the girl's determination, the male tribute catches up to her easily. His legs have to be at least two thirds longer than hers. He grabs her with his empty hand and crushes her against his thick chest. His arm wraps around her waist and he starts to swing the blade towards her neck, but because his grip is so low she is able to bend over and avoid the deathblow._

_As the sword swings fully around, the girl somehow manages to bite his arm. She draws blood and the ogre of a guy howls in pain and fury. He drops her and she scrambles to get up. As she staggers forward ready to bolt, the guy kicks her in the back of her knee sending her to the ground with a cry. She tries to get up, but something is wrong with her leg and it won't hold her balance, so she drops back down. This time, when the boy brings the sword down at her, she rolls to the side. The razor edge gets lodged into the dirt floor and for a flash he is preoccupied with tugging at the hilt to get it back out. The girl takes advantage of the distraction and franticly scuttles as far from him as possible. But the look in her eyes shows that even she knows the attempt is futile._

_Only a minute or so later, the male tribute has succeeded in cutting open the girl's throat after a short struggle._

_She falls to the ground, crumpled in on her side. Lying in a pool of crimson, her stunning, golden hair is tinged copper. The murderer stands over her dead body with the sword poised over his head preparing for another attack. _

_With a fierce expression, he brings the sword down again and again, hacking at her limbs—_

My vision wobbles, and I can feel rough hands gripping my shoulders, shaking me.

I blink several times and force the image away.

"Lyricata. Lyricata, calm down," an urgent voice in my right ear tells me, but I have a hard time concentrating on what it's saying. "Lyricata, take deep, slow breaths. Breathe, Lyricata, you need to breathe!"

I realize that my lungs are burning, protesting from a lack of oxygen. I gasp for air, sucking in huge breathes, doing as the voice commands. Slowly, my sight returns, and I turn to see a familiar face next to me.

Seeing him there, looking at me full of concern, the little bit of my sanity I had been able to hold onto started slipping from my grasp.

Unable to hold it back any longer, I press my face into the hollow between his neck and shoulder where it's warm and comfortable. "Lysander," I moan, and then I let all my walls plummet down and cry my heart out.

_**-Lysander Doffle, District 8-**_

I've just been reaped and said goodbye to my family, making it clear to them I have no intentions of coming back home despite their protests. I'm now sitting in a car being taken to the train station, where flocks of photographers will be waiting to capture my every move. After that, I will be thrown into a slaughtering of tributes where I will die. But those thoughts evade my mind. The only thing I'm able to focus on is the girl sitting next to me. My best friend. Somehow, the two of us have been chosen to die together. But I won't let that happen. Not to her, anyway.

My jaw is clenched, and I watch her, tense. Ever since the day I discovered how unstable Lyricata is, the day she moved in to live with my family and me, I've constantly been cautious and searched for signs of more distress. Right now, seeing her sit there like a statue, eyes fixed on nothing, the urge to help her roars up like a wave in my chest.

I reach out and place my hands on her shoulders, gently trying to catch her attention. I've seen that glazed off stare before, and I know I must call her back to consciousness.

"Lyricata. Lyricata, calm down." I try to keep the desperation out of my voice, but I know it didn't come out calm in the slightest. "Lyricata, take deep slow breaths."

She's still zoned out. "Breathe, Lyricata, you need to breathe!"

It takes a second, but she finally comes to, taking in great lungfulls of oxygen. Lyricata looks steadily at me for a moment, locking eyes. Then she lurches towards me and buries her face against my neck, startling me.

"Lysander." The sound is incredibly pitiful. When it's followed by hiccupping sobs, I'm pretty sure I can feel my heart ping with her pain. It's terrible to see my best friend this distraught.

Carefully, I take her wrists in one hand and wrap my other arm over her shoulders, trying to comfort her. I know it will do no good to attempt to get her to stop crying; she's had these fits often and the best way to handle them is to just allow her to let it all out. She will eventually get better.

All too soon, the car stops and my eyes are bombarded with blinding flashes of light. I step out of the car letting Lyricata lean against me, my arm still around her. Together we stagger towards the train that will take us to the Capital, forcing our way between the jittery reporters and cameras.

We finally make it to the train. Our escort, Petal Hardwire, in all her glittering glory, manages to daintily hoist herself onto the train. Lyricata goes next, and I assist her with stepping up into it and then turn back around to look at the throng of eager people. Petal and Lyricata stand in the doorway until I follow them up, but I wait a moment. In sudden spite, I give a half smile that holds absolutely no joy for the cameras' sakes before hauling myself up after them and slamming the door behind me.

Inside the train, Lyricata is wiping at her eyes and no longer weeping. I exhale with relief, but my breath is stolen when the train jerks to life under my feet. I stumble, taken away by the speed. Lyricata's knees buckle, but she grabs onto a nearby table to steady herself.

"Now, now then!" chirps Petal in her reedy voice that is much too high to be natural. "Time to show you both to your rooms!"

Reluctantly, I follow behind her with Lyricata trailing at my side.

Petal _taps_ her way down the slender halls in her exceedingly tall high heels and shows us to our rooms. She brings Lyricata to hers first and then takes me to mine. She dismisses me at the doorway with a smile so wide it must be painful and tells me to hang out in my room until dinnertime.

With a loss of things to do, I explore my chamber, which includes a bedroom and a place to change. They are both fancy and full of expensive and comfortable goods, but it's the last of the rooms that I'm drawn to. My own, personal bathroom complete with a _shower_. Eagerly, I shed my clothes and stride into the hot water. It pours over my skin and I close my eyes, relaxing in its peace. The water is soothing and my breathing slows while my brain clears of thought. I've never had a shower before, and barely ever do I even have the opportunities to bathe. So this is a treat. When my fingers start to prune, I shut the water off and slowly step out. I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist, leaving the room to go find something to wear.

I pass through the bedroom and almost fail to notice the figure lying silently on the bed. At the sound of my entrance, Lyricata sits up. "I was lonely," she says simply.

My mouth twitches and I park myself on the bed alongside her. We sit in silence, the other's presence alone a console.

I break the stillness. "I'm going to go put on some clothes."

"Oh." Lyricata clearly didn't notice that I was only wearing a towel. "Alright."

Quickly, I leave the room to grab a shirt and pair of pants.

When I return, Lyricata is on her back again, staring at the ceiling. "What are we going to do?" she asks in a monotone.

"I don't know. Win."

"Lysander, I'm serious." The bed doesn't even creak when she sits up.

My face is straight. "So am I."

Lyricata's shoulders slump forward, and she rests her elbow on her thigh, her chin on her fist. Her face screws up as she says, "Is there even a chance that one of us will make it out alive? Or are they just a fantasy, these dreams I keep having?"

For the past several nights, Lyricata has informed me that her dreams center on a bright yellow light surrounding two silhouettes standing side by side: one is tall with short, shaggy hair, and the other is a skinny shadow about the exact same height. The two of us.

Her eyes penetrate me and I know she can clearly see my internal struggle. She insists that the light means glory and happiness, yet she knows what I think. I'm convinced that it just means we might actually go to heaven.

I'm unable to say anything, so we just wait for Petal to come get us for dinner.

When Petal does come, she raps against the door frantically. I hurry to let her in and am surprised at her condition. Her eyes are wide, her cherry hair falling out of its tight bun, and she's holding her high heels in one hand, breathing heavily. "I can't—find—Lyricata—anywhere," she pants between gulps of air.

I open the door farther to reveal Lyricata standing a few feet behind me, wary.

Petal's eyes instantly narrow, and she purses her lips. "Young lady, what are you doing in here?"

Lyricata's eyebrows shoot up and her eyes dart around the room while she tugs at the bottom of her dress shirt.

I answer for her in a curt tone. "She didn't want to wait in her room by herself."

Petal sighs, but doesn't push the matter farther. "Well, you two, it's time for dinner."

We quietly consent and follow her to the dining room.

When we arrive, we see four chairs set around a square, highly polished, wooden table. Only one of them is taken.

The man sitting in the chair is, what appears to be, an albino. His skin and hair are snow white, while his eyes are a deep scarlet. The way he is drooped over in his chair and the dark shadows under his eyes make him seem dead or dying. A wilted flower. Our mentor, I'm assuming.

I take the seat across from the man and glance down at the food set in a silver platter in front of me. My mind doesn't process it in specifics. All I see is lettuce topped off with toppings galore and a dressing. Big, heaping mountains of leafy greens. And I can't seem to grab my fork fast enough.

_**-Lyricata Croose, District 9-**_

The food that is passed in front of my face is, to say the least, _phenomenal._ _Astounding. Unparalleled. _It is, without a doubt, the best I have ever had. Though I'm sure that, at this point, pigs' hoofs would have tasted incredible too, with my stomach in such a tight ball of nerves and having not eaten a decent meal in way too long.

I scarf down every meal placed before me, trying to ration and slow down, but it's hard. When everything you see in front of you is edible ecstasy, it's impossible to resist.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Lysander shoveling food into his mouth with the speed and consistency of a locomotive, and on the opposite side is our mentor. In my opinion, he looks like a turtle. The way he's hunched over with his shoulders pushed up slightly and how he stretches out his neck to reach his food. An albino turtle that smells bad and hasn't slept in a week. For some reason, I don't recognize him. Normally I know the names of all of the mentors who've won from our district since I was born – only two Victors – and the ones recently previous to that. I dismiss the fact with a mental wave and go back to focusing on a much more important matter: food.

While we all eat, we make little conversation. Petal asks us about our day, as if expecting it to have been exciting. I hardly glance at her, but focus on Lysander instead, who just gives her an exaggerated, sullen expression. She blinks and then turns to our mentor, giving him a meaningful look. "I think you should introduce yourself to Lysander and Lyricata. They are probably very curious to know who you are."

The man takes notice that Petal spoke to him only by moving his eyes. His head is still bent forward over his plate. "My name is Olaf Lindgren. I am your mentor," he states in a clear, but dull, voice. I frown at his lack of emotion.

Petal attempts to get Olaf to explain more, but he just mumbles a gruff, "Not while I'm eating," and ignores us. But Lysander won't take any of it. The atmosphere around him stales, and I know that he's angry that our mentor has not said anything of use yet while our lives are on the line.

My hand shoots out to touch his arm, to try and get him to relax. Lysander is always so serious. I can only imagine how wound up he is right now. To ease him, I decide to try to take matters into my own hands. My voice shakes a tiny bit as I speak. "Olaf." But I can't get more than one word out before Lysander goes ahead and breaks in.

"Can you at least tell us anything at all that will help us? Lyricata and I could both—" He suddenly cuts off, but he sucks in a breath and continues, "We want to make it out alive, and you're the one who's supposed to help us. So please, just do your job."

I'm worried that Lysander might have upset Olaf, but his eyes move mournfully up again and he says in a dead tenor, "Remember what the Capital has the power to do, and never turn your backs on each other, for you are the greatest asset to your ally."

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**Please review! **You know you want to! It can only take you two seconds if you want it to! I mean, **you can simply** **review saying, "polka dotted zebras rock,"** so that I know you read all of this, I guess.

-Tasting Raindrops-


	10. Chapter 7: Reaping Recaps

I am so sorry about the terribly long wait! I feel horrible that it's been three months since I've updated anything, but I've just been super buisy and had a ton of writer's block for this particular chapter. Because of said writer's block, this chapter is a lot shorter and absolutely nothing interesting happens. I went ahead and cut out the bit that I was having difficulties in and decided that it wasn't necessary. The only reason why I've gone and posted this is because I felt that the work I put in shouldn't go to waste and that you guys should all know that I am, indeed, still alive ( ;) Diabowserker...). I will try my hardest to make sure that I get the chapters done quicker, but my schedule is extremely hectic my first year in high school so I can't make any promises.

You guys have waited long enough, so here is the pitiful chapter I spent _forever _on. Now I'm excited 'cause things will (hopefully) be more interesting now.

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**Chapter 7 – Reaping Recaps **(Once again, I'm dry out of chapter titles…)

_**-Willow Salvador, District 5-**_

My stomach grumbles, yearning for more. I've never eaten this much food before, never had the opportunity to. Grandpa and Grandma do the best they can, and I chip in when I have the time, but it is hard to make a living. We're poor, very poor, and we hardly ever have anything to eat each day. 'Course, being a small family of three, we had it better than some, as hard as it is to believe. _And I may never see my small family again…._

Eager to fill my stomach, I spoon more of the soup into my awaiting mouth. It splashes over my tongue, warm, salty, and a hint of mushrooms. I've never eaten food this rich before, either.

After the third course, I can't stuff anymore down my throat. I gently push my plate away and then sit back, folding my hands in my lap.

On my right is Yawk Sky, my district partner. I hope we can be allies. Maybe. I just know that I won't make it very far on my own, though I'd much rather work by myself. I don't normally do well around others. Although he does seem like he might be a nice person, so it's a possibility.

But there will be time to figure out alliances later. And odds are he won't want to be an ally with little, scrawny me anyway.

Across from me sits our mentor. Being from District 5, there have only been a total of four Victors in the entire history of the Hunger Games. Two have already died, and the third is on maternity leave. So Yawk and I are stuck with just Agge Marrs.

She is a stiff, thick woman with a serious face and beaklike nose. Agge won the 72nd Games at age thirteen, but that's about as much as I know about her. Though she doesn't seem to talk much, she's proven helpful. Already, she has taught us two lessons for the Games: eat whatever you can, and silence can be the difference between life and death. I've already got the silence part down, but by the pointed looks she keeps giving me I seem to have failed the eating portion. I can't help but cringe under her glare.

Then there is a vacant seat where Bort the escort should be sitting. I've seen him all but ten minutes. When he drew our names. Period. Agge was the one who showed us around the train and brought us to dinner. Bort is so skinny though; I don't think he eats very often. Yet he has food at his disposal everywhere he goes, while I've never had a full meal at all one time in my life until now. I decide that I don't like him.

While I rest in my chair and think, Agge and Yawk continue to shovel down food. I'm not quite sure how they can fit all of it in their stomachs without exploding, but they seem to manage up until the final dessert. I notice that Yawk's face has a greenish tinge as he eats the chocolate cake that's drowning in hot fudge, but Agge tosses the whole thing down in only two bites. I wonder what it's like for her, having been in the arena and, odds are, seeing death right before her eyes. Does she still have nightmares of the way her allies died? Of the people she killed? I don't know how I'm going to stand watching people die, let alone killing them myself.

After dinner, we all go into a different compartment filled with couches bursting at the seams with stuffing and a large television hanging on the wall. I settle into an overflowing pouffe while Yawk and Agge go to the couch to watch the replays of all the different districts' reapings.

Agge pulls out a pad of paper and pen to take notes on the tributes, but I choose to just rely on my photographic memory and observation. After all, I won't be able to take a list of the tributes with me into the arena, so I might as well memorize them now.

The anthem plays, showing the Capitol seal, and then up pops District 1's reapings. I instantly focus and pick out the necessary details of the tributes, strictly only capturing the information I might need to recognize them.

First reaped for the 89th Hunger Games is Rowena Hemlock. She appears to be several inches taller than me, but my age. I find that I'm relieved to know I'm not the only twelve-year-old in this Game.

First reaped for the 89th Hunger Games is Rowena Hemlock, several inches taller than me, and she's my age, too. I find that I'm relieved to know I'm not the only twelve-year-old in the Games. Her hair is worn back in a ponytail so long it looks like it might even be touching the floor occasionally as it swings back and forth with her steps. Her smile to the crowd is bright, glad to have been chosen to have the chance at bringing glory to her family. For some reason, though, I don't really believe her. _Maybe we could be allies,_ I think.

The male tribute, Zayden Merk, is then called up, but, expectantly, there is almost instantly a volunteer. He has chestnut hair cropped short, isn't super buff like most male Careers, and has long legs that suggest the ability to run fast. He declares his name to be Knox Marquis, and then a ripple stirs through the crowd, everyone whispering. I make the note to figure out what's up with that.

The rest of the reapings move by quickly, until District 5's comes up. My reaping. I cringe into the fat cushion.

Even though this is the second time I've heard my name called to be a tribute, my breathing still speeds and heart beats frantically. Onscreen, my knees are shaking as I stand in front of the crowd, my hands wringing from nerves and worry. Then Yawk is called up and the attention is drawn from me. _Well, at least I didn't faint, cry, or run away screaming…_ The humor is dry even in my own mind and does nothing to cheer me up. Agge doesn't make any comments on neither Yawk nor me, and the room stays silent as the rest of the reapings play.

That night, I don't sleep a wink.

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Please review! I love all you guys and apologize so much for the inconvenience. And this skimpy chapter can in no way make it up, but I will do my best in the later chapters. I promise!

-Tasting Raindrops-


	11. Chapter 8: Opening Ceremonies

**ORIGINAL GOING-TO-BE A.N. WHEN I WAS FIRST WRITING THIS CHAPTER:** Yay! Chariot time! :D

**NOW: **I have a slight desire to just repost the same author's note I put on the last chapter. I'm _extremely_ annoyed with myself. You guys all deserve an explanation for my comings and goings… There really is no excuse. I had decided I had given up, in all honesty, about a month ago because I really wasn't getting anywhere. I had run dry on this one and decided to start another SYOT story to get my juices flowing again, and it worked for a period of time. I've only done two _real_ chapters in it before I got kind of…lax. But it wouldn't sit on my conscious to let this story go, so I just recently (as in today – March 9th – date for reference 'cause I have no idea when I will have this chapter done, but this is the date I started continuing it) got inspiration to continue it. So my thoughts are that I'm going to be going back and forth between this story and my SYOT story The Tempest and Oasis as my inspiration flows, so there will be no guarantee when I update next or if I even finish writing this chapter. So if anyone is still following this story, I really apologize and hope that for all of us I can continue this story successfully and with as few pauses as possible.

Wow, that author's note might have been even longer than the last one. :/

Anyway, I'm going to get out of my semi-depressed mood and get on with it!

(**DISCLAIMER: **The Hunger Games is in the fortunate hands of Suzanne Collins, and, unfortunately, that is not my name.)

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**Chapter 8 - Opening Ceremonies**

_**-Seattle Beck, District 3-**_

"This shouldn't…"

"…pinch a bit!"

I swear under my breath as Ippa and Lavern rip away the wax above my eyes, peeling off my eyebrows and skin while they both smile at me with the same dimples and bejeweled blue eyes. They giggle and apply more wax as Firee, the third triplet, continues to file my fingernails vigorously. It wouldn't surprise me if she'd already drawn blood but was too hasty to notice.

Ippa, Lavern, and Firee poke, prod, wax, soak, scrub, pull, and practically sand me down until my skin is shiny and flawless. For some reason, their flailing pale lavender limbs remind me of that sea creature…_what is it_… the octopus. My dad works for a factory and they recently created a machine based off of one. A multitude of arms attached to a large head, all working under the influence of one brain. The only difference is that I'm pretty sure octopuses don't chatter constantly about hair and lipstick shades.

I'm relieved when Ippa, Lavern, and Firee finally announce simultaneously, "You're done!" in extremely high-pitched, squeaky voices. Excitedly, they drag me over to the full-length mirror to show me what a great job they did.

I will admit that, yes, my skin is smoother, but it is definitely not worth the sting. My light red hair is shining, my teeth bleached, and I'm wearing makeup — never thought I'd say that. Silver lipstick, a gray powder that covers all of my skin, and silver glitter sprinkled everywhere.

I look absolutely hideous.

_**-Shaleep Scarlo, District 11-**_

My stylist walks in as I'm surveying myself in the mirror, and my prep team — Rain, Nick, and Allishia — is ushered out.

She doesn't approach me, just stands by the door as I marvel at the dark purple flowery design that trails down from the corners of my eyes to my cheeks. Nick did an amazing job with them. The deep green eye shadow and lips tinted purple are just noticeable against my dark skin. Rain had taken my hair out of its usual long cornrows, and now it was left down and waving to the middle of my back.

"I'm Raven."

The quiet voice startles me, and I turn on my heel to see my stylist for the first time. She looks unusually normal. Long, straight black hair, tanned skin, and stormy blue eyes. Some makeup is apparent, but only barely. Only her clothes really giver her away as being from the Capitol.

"I'm Shaleep," I reply.

Raven smiles. "Here, why don't you put this on?" She hands me a robe the same shade as the pattern on my face. As I put it on, she walks over to a panel on the wall and presses some quick buttons. Within a minute, food is sent up and comes out of the wall on a tray. "Go sit," Raven says, not unkindly, and carries the tray over to a low table set in between two couches.

She sits on the couch across from me and tells me to eat, asking questions every so often. I answer with some nods and one-word answers, most of my attention focused on the food. It's not until she asks about my family that I really take any notice of what she's saying.

My arm stops halfway to my mouth, and I swallow. Silently, I place the partially eaten roll back down on the plate and stare down at my hands in my lap. "They're fine," I hear myself say.

Raven stays silent, and I glance up at her. She's looking at me thoughtfully as if waiting for me to elaborate. "I hope they're fine, I mean."

Her mouth twitches. "Do you have any siblings, Shaleep?"

I nod. "I have an older sister, Tomika. She's nineteen now. And I have a sixteen-year-old brother, Danir. I had a twin sister." I sneak in the past tense hoping Raven won't catch it.

"I'm so sorry. What was her name?" Her tone is sincere, but I have a feeling she already knows all about my family. I think she just wants to hear it from me.

"Reyo."

Raven moves on, sensing my discomfort, but my mind stays on Reyo and guilt seeps through me. I can hear my mom telling me that it's not my fault, but to this day I can't help but feel it was because of me. The food was mine initially, but I let her have it instead. _How could you have known it would give her food poisoning?_ Mom had tried to comfort me. But I never really listened to her, and now whenever Reyo is brought up a sour taste fills my mouth, as if my subconscious conjures up a poison of its own. One that could never possibly kill me like Reyo.

Thirty minutes later, Raven has me standing in front of the mirror again, now fully dressed in my Opening Ceremonies costume, and it looks quite stunning.

I'm in a strapless, pine green dress that goes down to my ankles. A purple filmy fabric with fake leaves snaking across it covers the dress. Soft gloves that match the fabric adorn my hands, and a necklace of jewel grapes rests around my neck. Sandals, the style that every grape picker wears, are on my feet right below the hem of the dress. My hair is still down but woven through with grapes and loose leaves.

I look as though I'm one with nature.

_**-Charidy Junell, District 3-**_

Seattle and I stand side by side in our chariot, not quite sure what to do.

Our stylists had abandoned us; mine had just left me without even bothering to bring me down to the bottom level of the Remake Center – I don't think he realized he was supposed to escort me down. I had to wander through the halls until Seattle and his stylist found me. After taking us to our chariot and warning us with a chuckle, his round, blue belly bouncing, "not to fall off when the horses lead us out," he went off to talk to some other stylists from a different district.

So now we are silently waiting to be put in the spotlight. Silently waiting awkwardly, might I add. Seattle just grimaces down at the horses while I lean against the wall of the chariot. My costume makes it difficult to relax though. The metal sheeting that acts as our clothing is stiff, the insensitive edges cutting into my arms, the haphazard tubes limiting movement, and the laser contacts are just plain uncomfortable behind my glasses. Eventually I just stand stiffly upright, bouncing up and down on my toes absently, wishing this night could just be over already.

Of course, that's one day closer to the Arena.

It's a lose-lose situation.

And on top of that, I look like a cyborg. Not my first choice. _Humph._

_**-Yawk Sky, District 5-**_

I've never thought much about myself. This outfit doesn't help.

Standing on the chariot, looking at all of the other tributes… I think it's a safe bet to say that my district's costume is by far the worst of all this year.

It's made up of black felt mathematical symbols and giant numbers all stitched together. About half of my skin is showing, enough to make me uncomfortable, but not enough for me to be technically naked.

Seeing my district partner, though, pretty much diminishes my own self-pity. With her sickly thinness, the outfit hardly has anything to hold onto, and I can tell she's surreptitiously clinging to keep it on her body.

I open my mouth to ask if she wants me to try to help, but close it almost immediately after. I don't want to embarrass her any more; her cheeks are already blooming red.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I glance around at the tributes again, but this time I'm combing over to see if there's any—

_Aha!_

Leaning on the outside of the chariot right next to this one looks a promising girl.

I jerk my head to my district partner, poor little Willow, trying to let her know I'll be right back.

I step down from the chariot and casually amble over to the fishy District 4 female tribute who seems to be intentionally staring in the opposite direction of me, unobtrusively ignoring my approach.

At my voice, she sighs and looks at me, blatantly revealing her dislike through her pursed lips. "Could I ask you something?"

"No." Period.

I lean in just a bit, not trying to make her uncomfortable — or myself — considering she's only wearing seashells as her cover with the rest of her body painted silver, mimicking a fish's scales. "I just wanted to see if you'd let me have one of your hair pins." I glance at her hair and add, "I think you have plenty."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," I say sincerely. "I was just going to give it to my partner— District partner, I mean."

She sighs heavily and pulls out one of the pins holding the seaweed strands woven through her rich, chocolate brown hair. She silently hands it to me.

I smile. "Thank you, I'm sure Willow will appreciate this."

She raises her eyebrows questioningly.

"My District partner," I clarify. "By the way, I'm Yawk Sky."

"Oh, right." She nods. "Yawk." My name rolls off of her tongue kind of funny, before she continues, "My name's Damona Ravenswood."

I nod back to her. "Well, I guess I'll see you later. Good luck." I turn to go back to the chariot, but a quick laugh makes me look back.

"None of us have enough of that." Her tone has changed to be more genuine, with only a bit of forced humor.

"What?" I ask, confused.

Damona flicks her head to get a piece of seaweed out of her face. "Luck."

I grimace. "You got that right."

With another short nod, I go and hoist myself up onto the chariot and tell Willow to turn around. Her eyebrows squinch together, but she does so anyway without a question.

I slide the pin to hold the leg of a giant nine and a four, pulling the outfit closer and tighter. I make a quick job of it and then pat Willow on the shoulder to let her know I was done.

She turns, pulling her arms down from holding onto the costume to find that it is completely secure, if only a little wrinkled in the back. She brings her arms behind her to feel what I'd done, and then drops them to her sides, smiling a tiny smile. "Thank you," she almost whispers. I have to strain to hear her, but it's not impossible to make out.

"Anytime," I reply.

Willow opens her tiny mouth to say something else, right when the Capitol's music blares as the sign for the start of the Opening Ceremonies.

Simultaneously, we face the front of the chariot. Willow's stylist, who's basically been nonexistent for the extent of our wait — my stylist disappeared earlier with the excuse of something along the lines of 'drowning his miseries' — raps the side of the chariot with her two-inch long, metallic nails, saying, "Love the audience, and they'll love you."

_Well, that's about the nicest thing she's ever said to us._

Willow and I nod emphatically, partially from nerves, partially to make sure she doesn't go off on one of her little rants again. She really dislikes to be defied.

The chariot lurches forward, and I grab onto the edge as the horses begin to pull us forward behind District 4. I catch a glimpse of Damona glancing back before her chariot is covered in shadow as it pulls outside.

Our chariot follows through the giant doors of the bottom level of the Remake Center, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright lights of the building to the very dim light filtering through thick clouds overhead. Crowds of people are waving and shouting along the sides of the stream of chariots, throwing their arms out to make up for the distance they must keep so that the horses don't trod on any feet.

I think about what Willow's stylist just told us and decide, _what the heck_, might as well make some kind of effort for them to like me. Even if my costume is atrocious.

I reach my hand out to the crowd's hands trying to touch as many as I can, all the while beaming and waving with my other hand. I do this until the people are forced back by a thug of a Peacekeeper, though I'm not sure that that's what they would be called, here in the Capitol. Then I resort to just the smiling and waving.

About twenty minutes later, the chariots pull into the City Circle. By this time, the sky is various shades of black and gray, the clouds hovering ominously above our heads, but the throngs of people take no notice. They're too busy shouting and waving, shoved in between the buildings around the president's mansion.

I pay no mind to the president as he walks out on his balcony and makes some speech. All I do is continue smiling and waving, occasionally glancing up at the television screens to see the tributes displayed. The cameras don't hang around Willow and I for very long, but I like to think that I've made at least a little bit of an impression on the people of the Capitol. Willow doesn't seem to be doing much other than clutching the side of the chariot and trying to stay relatively calm, but my enthusiasm seems to be enough to capture a bit of attention.

We're on our second lap around the Circle when the sky finally decides to let loose. Rain pours in tumults, hard.

The people of the Capitol are taken completely aback; some even start screaming, complaining about their hair or whatever. It's actually almost amusing to see them franticly rushing to stand under an overhang or pulling coats over their heads.

A giggle from Willow pulls my attention from the Capitol people.

A quick glance around at the chariots tells me that the tributes are quite enjoying themselves. Some of the tributes had started to giggle, but now several are clutching there abdomens from being doubled over laughing. Across the Circle, I can see the girl from District 9 had her head tilted back and was just letting the water droplets fall on her face. Both tributes from District 10 are joking around, miming swimming through the downpour.

Willow is positively radiating contentment, with her eyes closed just enjoying this moment of distraction from everything that's supposed to be going on.

All too soon, the horses have pulled the chariots into the Training Center. The screens are still showing the president, now inside the manor, making whatever comments he feels inclined to say. A few cameramen had been able to follow us in considering the circumstances, so the tributes are shown for a few brief moments, but the event is basically over.

When the prep teams and stylists are allowed in, they swarm, most of them buzzing about how unfortunate the rain was and how messed up the outfits are now. I'm glad I found that pin for Willow, or there's no way the felt numbers would have stayed up with the weight of the water and her focus on ignoring everyone to just hold onto the chariot.

Her stylist finally notices the pin, and we both cringe as she goes on a tirade about how ungrateful we are to her work; Willow and I nod and apologize swiftly a few times before she calms down enough to take us up to our floor, our new temporary _home_.

Right before we make it to the elevator, I'm able to catch a glimpse of outside through the still-open doors. It looks like the rain is starting to let up. But who knows just how long it will take before it fully stops?

* * *

So whatcha guys think? Am I a bit rusty from being gone so long? I feel like it. But I won't really know unless you guys **review and let me know**!

Oh, and on a slight side note, I realize that I used the word "smile" at least a billion times. I just stopped noticing after a while, but I did try to change some of them. I think.

-Tasting Raindrops-


End file.
